


Var Hellathen

by geekyjez



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arlathan, Elvhenan, Nudity, References to Abuse, Slavery, The Great Betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3936295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekyjez/pseuds/geekyjez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Var Hellathen - Our Noble Struggle</em>
</p><p>In the underbelly of the great city of Arlathan, the slaves are getting restless. Some have escaped their bondage and have seemingly vanished. Most assume that these are isolated incidents, unaware that a rebellion is brewing in the hidden corners of Elvhenan. Fen’Harel has tried to make the gods see the error of their ways, but he is getting tired of playing politics. He wants to bring change to their empire – and if he must build an army of freed slaves and begin a full-scale revolution in order to achieve it, then so be it. This story opens on the early days of the Dread Wolf’s rebellion and ends shortly after the Great Betrayal. It contains deceptions, manipulations, political maneuvering, spies, murder and treason. Features the full-cast of the Elvhen pantheon including some of the Forgotten Ones. Tries to explore what exactly pushed Fen’Harel so far that he came to the conclusion that the world would be better off if all of the gods were banished.</p><p>
  <em>Written for the 2015 Dragon Age Big Bang.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also available on [tumblr. ](http://geeky-jez.tumblr.com/post/118930551108/var-hellathen-masterpost)

The temple that housed the Great Hall was an ancient place, much older than the city itself. Among the lesser immortals, there were none who could recall a time before its creation. To them, it was a constant – a symbol of their gods’ everlasting glory, the seat from which they determined the fate of all things.

He would find this notion amusing if it weren’t all so pathetic.

The Hall housed a grand circle of thrones – each carved and ornate and large to the point of ostentation. Seven of the nine thrones were equal only in size, but shared little else in common. Ghilan’nain sat upon a soft and spiraling nest of pale birch branches. Andruil’s throne was far less delicate – a hard stone surface carved into the shape of the prey she hunted, a menagerie of creatures framed on either side by the shape of two cowering elves for her arms to rest upon. Falon’Din and Dirthamen’s thrones were unsurprisingly similar in shape and size, distinguished only by color. While the latter had a simple throne cast in darker shades of silver, the former’s was covered in black and green gems, polished until they created a surface so dark it appeared that he rested on little more than the endless void itself.

Fen’Harel’s own throne was pleasing to the eye – curved lines and elegant shapes, avoiding all the rigidity of angular design. One might even describe it as beautiful until they noticed the deep fanged grooves carved along the arch of its high back, suggesting that whoever stood before it had a hungry toothed maw awaiting them.

While the others sat, rigid and attentive, the Dread Wolf lounged. His head rested lazily against one hand, fingers sunk into the unruly mane of dark hair at his crown, his legs kicked up over the opposite arm of his seat. He watched the others with amused disinterest, a gleam in his eye as he focused on the growing agitation in the Huntress who sat across from him.

“He is sabotaging my hunts,” she insisted again. Her eyes darted to him and he gave her a small smile. Elgar’nan set his steely gaze on the Dread Wolf. Though he never held what one would call a pleasant expression, the God of Vengeance did not appear very moved by the claim, his eyes projecting more irritation than anger.

“Do you deny it, Wolf?”

Fen’Harel shrugged, gesturing with a dismissive brush of his fingers through the air before resting his jaw on his palm. “Not at all.”

Andruil writhed in her seat, annoyed by his nonchalance. “He has been destroying my traps, helping the guilty escape—”

“Perhaps you are simply losing your touch,” he muttered, his eyes gleaming with delight as she glared at him, seething. “Do you not appreciate a challenge?”

“Don’t mock me,” she snapped before turning again to the All-Father. “The ones that I hunt are criminals and runaways, those placed there by your own judgment. His trickery is interfering with the application of justice.”

“I have no problem with justice,” Fen’Harel said smoothly. “Justice is what I would prefer, rather than the perverse mockery you make of it. Sadistically hunting someone down in the woods like an animal? And for what crime? Desiring their freedom?” His expression hardened. “It is barbarism at its basest level.”

“Do you mean to lecture me on what constitutes justice, pup?” He turned his head to face Mythal, the goddess challenging him with her tone. She was a commanding presence in the room – tall and slender, golden eyes matching the color of her hair, set against a strong and angular face. She and Elgar’nan sat at the head of the circle, their two thrones the largest of the set. While hers was smaller than her husband’s, it would be a mistake to see her as lesser in her might.

“If you were the one solely responsible for such abuses,” he said testily, “then yes. I would.” Elgar’nan did not miss the veiled slight against him, his face twisting into a sneer. Mythal, on the other hand, gave him an appraising look, one that spoke of mild amusement at his gall.

“You’re a childish hypocrite and your recent tirades over the treatment of the Lesser have long since grown tiresome,” the All-Father said, glowering. “You speak of the evils of slavery while enjoying the privileged life purchased by such a system.”

Fen’Harel could feel the prickling heat of anger threatening his composure. “I have never owned slaves.”

“And yet you have had priestesses and priests,” Mythal said. “You have accepted the oaths of the Exalted before.”

“Not anymore,” June grumbled derisively under his breath. His sister Sylaise tittered softly at the jab as Fen’Harel glanced over to them, unamused. Everyone there knew that the Dread Wolf had long since dismissed his followers, though none appeared to understand why. It riled him that he alone seemed to comprehend that they were not worthy of worship – that this subjugation was a perversity and not the natural way of things. His temples were once populated by those who acted upon his will; by the Exalted who took it as a badge of pride that he had accepted their vow to serve him, favored above all others who followed in his wake. No longer did his temples host acts of worship, outside of those few faithful who conducted their own liturgy out of habit and misguided desperation. There were those he could not dissuade, no matter what he did – whispering his name on fevered lips, hands outstretched in supplication, begging for the return of his favor. He detested the charade and wanted no part of it. He was not a god.

None of them were.

“I make no secret of that,” Fen’Harel bit back tersely. “Though the two are only circumstantially comparable. I never took what was not freely given.”

“This is all simply a ploy,” Falon’Din said, his voice smooth and buttery with smug superiority. “This recent fascination with servitude is merely an act. A way to garner favor with the People. Clearly the Wolf wants to rebuild his number of acolytes after his previous foolishness. It’s sad, really, that he would stoop so low as to cull from criminals and slaves.” He tilted his head as his dark eyes met Fen’Harel’s, his self-satisfied grin deepening as he looked down the length of nose. “Though I suppose they would be the only ones who would have him now.”

“You mistake my intentions,” Fen’Harel responded calmly, flashing a condescending smile. “I have no interest in increasing my flock. The tale of the god who greedily snatched up worshipers to make himself feel like a bigger man has already been played out, has it not? And you did fulfill that role so well, Falon’Din. I would hate to take that from you.”

The god’s smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing. Angering the God of Death was never much of a challenge, but it was amusing nonetheless. Though it had been some time since his bloody rampage, Fen’Harel took pleasure in reminding him of his fall from grace. His hunger for glory had driven him to wage war against the People, striking down thousands of innocents who refused to bow down before him. He did not deserve mercy for what he had done. Yet when he was brought before Mythal for judgment, when he laid himself out in supplication, when Dirthamen spoke eloquently in a plea for his life, she was swayed.

It was said that his crime had been an affront to Mythal, for he had threatened and killed some of her own followers. While the gods eventually rallied together in opposition, they were fuelled by a desire to stop him from threatening the hold that they each held over the People. They cared nothing for saving the lives of those innocents he intended to slaughter or avenging the ones he had already taken to the sword. It sickened Fen’Harel that no one recognized that the true victims were the People who were slain and not the vanity of the gods.

“Perhaps there is something to be said for changing the way things are currently handled concerning the hunts,” Ghilan’nain said calmly, the delicate chains draping over the contours of her face jingling softly as she shifted her head. “Still, I don’t think backhanded sabotage is the correct way to go about such things.”

“Enough,” Elgar’nan leaned forward on his throne, his tone lowering. “I will hear no more of this. This is a petty squabble and will only serve to lower our guard against the Others. Geldauran’s hoards still press against our borders. Do not forget that the peace we enjoy in Arlathan is being purchased by our soldiers and our slaves.” His eyes scanned the room, challenging all in attendance with his glare. “We are still at war. We do not need this foolish in-fighting. Fen’Harel will stop interfering with the hunts immediately.” He turned his gaze to the Dread Wolf. “You receive one warning. Ignore it and you will face the consequences.”

He smirked, despite himself. “What? Would you put me in one of Andruil’s hunts as prey?” He glanced over at the Huntress. “I’ve seen the quality of her work. You would need to find yourself a far better executioner.”

Despite his enjoyment at seeing her lips pull back in a snarl, he realized quickly that he had gone a step too far. Elgar’nan’s eyes widened, his face tightening with rage as he rose from his throne. “Do not make a mockery of this!” he shouted, his voice booming as it echoed through the Hall. Fen’Harel kept his face calm even as his body tensed cautiously. He could feel the energy that crackled around the All-Father, whipping past him sporadically. “You show such little regard for my mercy, Wolf? Then perhaps you would face my wrath instead?”

Fen’Harel steadied himself, showing no reaction as readied a barrier spell. Mythal rose, placing a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “There is no need for violence, my love,” she said softly. “The Wolf will do as he is told.” Her eyes met his own from across the hall, giving a silent command for obedience. The desire to refuse was strong, but Fen’Harel was not a fool. He gave a small nod, even as his skin crawled with frustration.

Despite Elgar’nan’s fury, the sharp metallic scent of his magic in the air dissipated. His expression softened, as he relaxed into her touch. Mythal’s influence over him had its definite benefits. “For your sake, I hope she is right, Wolf,” he snapped before storming toward the Hall’s grand entry. “Get out. All of you. Now.”

The others rose from their seats in the wake of the All-Father’s footsteps. Falon’Din shot one last sour look of disdain at the Dread Wolf before phasing, his image shifting and splintering as he slipped himself through the tenuous barrier between waking and death. Fen’Harel always found it a rather showy mode of transport, but it was a favored technique for the God of Fortune. Andruil glared, each step toward the exit charged with an anger that could almost match Elgar’nan’s. The Dread Wolf made no attempt to hide his amusement. Her siblings, June and Sylaise, followed her silently. As a pair, they had contributed little-to-nothing throughout the course of the meeting – a trait not unusual for them. No matter what squabbles happened amongst the gods, June and Sylaise would always aim for neutrality when not automatically siding with their sister. They had little interest in anything outside of maintaining the status quo, not caring what happened around them so long as they could continue on with their comfortable lives of privilege.

Dirthamen had remained silent but his wordless gaze spoke volumes. He was watching the events unfold as he always did, his face revealing nothing but a pleasant grin. Fen’Harel was not surprised when the Keeper of Secrets quickened his steps to match his own as he exited the Hall. “I am intrigued, Fen’Harel,” he began, flashing a false smile. “What exactly do you hope to gain with this little flirtation with rebellion? Certainly you are not genuine in your efforts to take on the role of a freedom fighter?”

Fen’Harel glanced over to the man who walked beside him. Though not of the same blood, he was a mirror’s image of his twin Falon’Din. They had the same thin nose, the same pointed chin, the same slender form that suggested delicate refinement over fearsomeness. Yet even with identical builds, they shared little else. Where the black haired Falon’Din sneered, his pale haired equal smiled. Where the God of Death covered himself in splendor, donning jewels that glittered with the weight of his extravagance, the Keeper of Secrets chose a far simpler level of adornment. It was easy for one to assume that Dirthamen, with his sweet voice and warm grin, was perhaps the lightness to his twin’s dark nature. Fen’Harel knew full well that it was a façade. Dirthamen was a viper – a sneaky and deceptive player of the Game and quite possibly one of the most dangerous members of the court. In this way, they were well-matched. In ages past, the two of them had fulfilled similar roles – swaying the others with their manipulations, gaining another’s trust only to twist it into something that benefited their own interests. Theirs was a strange dance, one of mutual distrust brushed with the subtlest hints of respect for each other’s skill.

Fen’Harel put on his best grin. “Come now. Is that truly what you think of me? Some sort of champion of the Lesser?”

“I think you are playing a game,” Dirthamen answered calmly. “You’ve just neglected to tell the rest of us the rules.”

Fen’Harel laughed brightly. “Wouldn’t be any fun that way, would it?”


	2. Chapter 2

  
_Gorgeous illustration by[vilify](http://vilify.tumblr.com/)._

Once, Fen’Harel’s estate had been filled with people. Servants, priests, Exalted, supplicants- all begging for an audience with their deity. They used to swarm him like a sea of hands constantly tugging at his robes yet unable to hide their fear when he would turn to meet their eyes. They begged for his cunning and deceit, pled for his intervention into their own affairs, each fearing what the cost of such actions would be. He would delve into their dreams, show them all that they desired or torment them with visions of their deepest fears. There were many who believed that dreams from the Dread Wolf held prophecy and for a time, this was a farce he did not discourage. He could no more tell the future than any being could, yet he was clever enough to recognize that such a belief was a powerful tool for manipulation.

There was a time in his youth where he enjoyed his work. He took pleasure in holding power over the Lesser; in seeing how high a cost they would be willing to pay for the deft touch of his magic. He enjoyed their adulation and found their apprehension amusing. He indulged in the power play, relished the fact that there were few who would deny him his desires. Those that asked of the Dread Wolf knew there was always a risk involved. He would offer protection to those he deemed worthy and retribution to those who had escaped justice for their wrongdoings. But if a supplicant came before him, trying to get him to bring torments to an innocent victim of that petitioner’s vindictiveness, the Dread Wolf would delight in providing a proper punishment for wasting his time. He was not some beast for the Lesser to sic on one another – and he would bring suffering to anyone who forgot it.

All in the pursuit of fairness, of course.

The petty cruelties began to weigh on him as the years passed. At first they simply lost their charm – he was no longer amused by watching those below him squirm. He grew jaded with each new request. The things that brought him pleasure became dull and unfulfilling. Falon’Din’s crimes, among other things, proved a tipping point. Seeing how little regard the others held for the lives lost, hearing the dead described in terms of followers and flock rather than conscious entities with their own free will – it sickened him. For a time, he thought he could use his power and influence to change the minds of those who praised him – to make them see the world as he now began to view it. He wanted them to see that they had all been taken for sheep; lambs awaiting their slaughter, their lives held as meaningless in the eyes of those they worshipped as gods. But it was useless. He’d been surrounded by fools and sycophants, people who placated him for fear of his wrath, who humored him out of blind faith rather than opening their eyes and seeing the truth.

So he dismissed them all.

It was unceremonious. Sudden. One day, sick of their proclamations of faith, he turned on them, drove them from his home. There were those who were stunned, frightened, fearful of his anger. Those who threw themselves at his feet, who clutched at his clothing in desperation, pleading for his forgiveness. They promised him sacrifices, slaves for his pleasure; whatever he asked of them, they would give. He could not make them understand that with every word they uttered, the further his faith in them retreated. They could never understand and he was tired of explaining himself.

He had lived alone ever since, strangely finding comfort in the solitude. He could take time for his own pursuits. He took to painting, began to read voraciously, to commune with spirits, to expand his mind outside of his narrow, hedonistic perspective. While before he held nothing but apathy for the goings on outside of his temples and his estate, now he found himself watching more closely. Observing quietly. He lost interest in playing politics with the others and his participation in the Game all but ceased. What once made him laugh, haughty and looking down on the foolishness of others, now angered and frustrated him.

Change could not come soon enough.

He sat in his study, his feet propped up on his desk as he read, his hand lazily drawing circles in the air, stoking the nearby brazier with his magic. Half-consciously he stitched a spell together, idly entwining an invisible strand of heat from the flames, catching it in the air and preserving its warmth as he strung it from the high ceilings. The walls about him glimmered in their opalescence, barriers of curved glass, each enchanted to allow an unobstructed view out while keeping prying eyes at bay. Trees shaped his home, arcing branches stretching out to form the framework, embedded within and passing through the glass; less a constructed form but rather a woven tapestry of rounded shapes. Dappled light drifted down through the canopy overhead, giving the illusion of the forest while maintaining the opulence of what was once considered his greatest temple.

Though he still surrounded himself with the luxurious trappings of his past, he lived far more simply now, requiring none but himself to maintain his affairs.

He thought little of it when a wisp drifted past his field of vision. A mere inkling, a fragment of what would one day be a fully-fledged spirit. It had been particularly active recently, darting about his home, often following as Fen’Harel moved from room to room. He did not mind its presence. It was merely a wisp, barely even possessing what one could rightfully call a consciousness. Though it was hard to tell precisely what it would one day become, he had grown familiar enough with it to recognize that it held faint traits of compassion and empathy. An interesting companion for the Dread Wolf, all things considered. Notable that it would be so attracted to him now that his course had been set into action.

It darted again, this time moving more aggressively at his side, quivering as it slid over the pages of his book, rotating once around his wrist before spinning away again. His eyes followed it now, his interest moderately piqued. The wisp shook, vibrating in pulses, shooting suddenly towards the doorway to his study before lurching back to him. It was only then that he began to hear the faint but familiar hum of his Eluvian activating. His eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued as his ears picked up the sharp buzzing of something pressing against the barrier he had constructed around it.

Someone was trying to get into his home uninvited.

He marked his place in the book before setting it down, slowly making his way into the main hall as the wisp trailed after him. The room was expansive, feeling desolate and empty as it no longer served its primary purpose. Once, it had been filled with his acolytes. Now, it housed little more than his throne and a long table that he once used for dining. Here, the ceilings reached to the full height of his temple, stretching out to embrace the tall boughs above.

With a flick of his wrist, he lit the cold braziers, chasing shadows from the canopy’s shade as he neared the mirror. From the sound of it, whoever was on the other side was anxious to pass through – thrumming and crashing, pressing and raging against the magic that blocked their entry.

He suspected he knew who it was, grinning as he lowered the barrier.

The wisp fled as Andruil stormed into the room, a furry mass of dead weight slung over her shoulder. The scar on her cheek twisted as she smiled, an ugly expression filled with nothing but malice. “Here,” she said, throwing her latest catch down to the floor in front of him, the animal’s corpse hitting the polished black stone with a wet thud. “I brought you a gift.”

He glanced down at the dead wolf that now lay at his feet. Its fur was white, clearly chosen to resemble his own favored form, matted and caked with dried blood. The body was riddled with puncture marks, mutilated by arrows and blades alike. Clearly it had not been a clean death.

 _Petty. So incredibly petty._ He was not angered by this show of gruesome force. In fact, he found some amusement at the baseness of her threat. Cutting up some poor innocent beast did nothing to intimidate him. “Was that really necessary?” he asked plainly.

“Clearly it is,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing. “You and I both know you have no intention of following Elgar’nan’s commands.”

“Whatever gave you that impression, dear Huntress?” he asked, mocking her with his tone. “I am hurt you would make such assumptions about my character.”

Her nostrils flared as she pressed forward, pushing a finger hard into his chest. “You need to stop meddling in my affairs. Consider this a warning.”

His smile broadened. “I have to admit, I am entertained by this notion. Do you honestly think that your bellowing is any more effective than the All-Father’s?”

Her eyes bore into his, her lips twitching with her barely-tempered rage. Andruil was tall for a woman, the pair of them standing at equal height as she glared into his face, her body tense and ready for a fight. Her build was slim but strong – long limbs wrapped in tight coils of muscle, bound in leather strips that snaked around her form. Her hair was the same ruddy shade as the blood-stained fur at his feet, shaved on one side and tied back loosely over her pale skin. Her eyes were green, but not a bright and shining tint. Instead they were dark, muddied, a color that reminded him more of dying vegetation than anything of beauty. Her scar was by far her most defining feature. He reached up, tracing his nail lightly over the deep and jagged groove that marred her cheek, meeting at the corner of her lips, carving a slanted grin on her face. “You know, there was a time where I regretted giving you this,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Now I see that it is an improvement.”

Her lips pursed tightly as her eyes widened, venom in her voice as she spoke. “This isn’t over,” she spat.

“Anger is such an ugly emotion, Andruil,” he said smoothly, grinning. “I suppose that is why it suits you so well.”

She snarled, her fingertips brushing the fletching of the arrows strapped to her back. Fen’Harel’s eyes widened along with his smile, challenging her. “Go ahead,” he taunted. “See what I can do in the time it takes you to nock your arrow.” He saw her hesitation quickly overcome by seething. “You know as well as I do that you’re no match for me now. Not since Mythal stripped you of your power.”

“My arrows never miss,” she hissed.

“Am I supposed to fear some little enchanted pieces of wood?” he asked. “How does it feel to know you are nothing without the weapons your brother made you?” He could see the hard flinch in her jaw. Her pride was so fragile. So easily mocked. “The Void certainly changed you, Huntress. I have always wondered what precisely drove you to that madness. What exactly did it take for you to fall so far that Mythal had to tear you down into what you are today – the shriveled remnants of a once-powerful goddess? I have travelled the Void many times, yet never once have I lost my senses. Perhaps I am simply better than you.”

“I took to the Void to kill the Others!” she screamed at him. “Not to consort with them like you do! I cannot conceive of the reason why Elgar’nan has not placed your corpse on display, strung up high for all to see. You’re a traitor simply for your association with them, Wolf.”

His laughter only deepened her rage. “Threaten me all you like. I may be a Wolf, but you’re the one still clinging to Elgar’nan’s leash. I’m sure you make for a very good _pet._ ”

She shifted forward, her face pressed inches from his own. “There was a time I would have seen you simply humiliated,” she sneered, her breath hot against his lips, her teeth bared as she spoke. “Broken and tamed. Now? _I will see you destroyed,_ ” she hissed, panting. “I will bring you under my heel and revel in your blood. I will have your head as a trophy.”

“But not until Elgar’nan orders it.” He tilted his head in mock sympathy, clicking his tongue softly. “That must be so infuriating for you.” He lifted his hand, opening the Eluvian with a dismissive gesture. “Enough with you, then. Come back when you are more than words to spit at me.”

Her eyes were ablaze at the dismissal. “When my arrow comes for you, you won’t even see it!” He was amused by how her voice shook when she threatened him, shouting, her anger so heightened, so barely controlled.

He lowered his head, nodding thoughtfully. “What a delightful notion,” he said coolly, knowing that his calm smile held more power in it than the loudest of her screams. “I will have to think on that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout-out to BreLakor whose fic [Crystal White](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2770019/chapters/6211652) was a huge inspiration. Admittedly, the image of Andruil mutilating a wolf showed up in her writing first, but the symbolism was too good to pass up on.


	3. Chapter 3

  
_Gorgeous illustration by[vilify](http://vilify.tumblr.com/)._

“You are doubting me, old friend.”

__

Wisdom watched him, her face unmoving in its gentle demeanor. “It is not in my nature to doubt, Fen’Harel,” she responded calmly. “Either I know or I do not. I cannot suppose upon that which cannot be foreseen.”

__

His hands were busy peeling away his robes. Though his finery was nowhere near the extravagance of some of his peers, he knew they would not serve as proper attire for where he was headed. The spirit hovered at a comfortable distance, gazing idly over a collection of tomes he kept in his chambers. He was not concerned about maintaining a sense of modesty in her presence, as he knew her interests lay far from physical matters.

__

“Still, you question whether or not my actions are just.”

__

“I care little for justice,” she clarified. “Only whether or not yours is a wise course.”

__

He frowned, irritated as he let his clothing pool at his feet – furs and robes stitched with silver, layers of black and grey laced with shimmering light, giving the illusion of molten metal with each subtle movement. He reached instead for a pair of simple breeches and a plain, rough tunic. “Do you not think the pursuit of justice is, in itself, a proper justification for my actions? That there is wisdom in wanting to see an end to suffering?”

__

“And yet to pursue that feat, even without knowing if it is attainable, you would sacrifice stability.”

__

He shook his head, his hands pulling at the cording that held back his hair. “Such stability is not worth saving if it is purchased with the lives of the innocent.” He ran his hands over his matted strands, his fingers snagging as he tried to work out some of the tangled knots. He twisted it together, securing the bundle at the nape of his neck.

__

“That may be so,” she said simply. She drifted closer to him, a twinge of sympathetic concern on her brow. “You seek either approval or answers that I cannot provide, Fen’Harel. Your motives are noble, but neither one of us can truly say whether or not they are wise until they have already come to pass. Wisdom lies more comfortably in hindsight, when all outcomes can be seen plainly and one can speculate on whether or not the costs were truly worthy of the benefits they purchased.”

__

He considered that for a moment, wrapping a scarf loosely about his neck. “My confidence will not be swayed. I can no longer live in a state of perpetual tolerance, pretending to be blind to these cruelties for the sake of the privileged few and their comfort.”

__

She smiled softly, brushing her hand against his cheek, the cool tingle of her touch ghosting over his skin. “Then proceed with eyes open, Dread Wolf.” He smiled, nodding as he pulled his hood into place, shielding his hair, securing the scarf over his jaw to further obscure his face. Wisdom dispersed, drifting in a plume of dissipating light. He knew he would speak to her again soon. It was her way to come and go as she pleased.

__

Fen’Harel was already summoning as he left his estate, plumes of black smoke curling around the edges of his cloak. It consumed him, enveloped him, warm and welcoming as his back arched. He lunged forward, not pausing as he shifted form, the Wolf charging into a loping run. There was a heady quality to the transformation. He enjoyed the speed and grace of his body, the rush of adrenaline as his senses heightened to their peak. It made him feel powerful. Fearsome. For now, it was merely a convenience. He would make better time as the Wolf. He had an appointment to keep.

__

His estate lay deep within the forests that encircled the great city of Arlathan – as beautiful as they were dangerous. When his home had functioned as a place of worship, nearly all travelled by Eluvian to reach him, not daring to make the journey on foot. Now that he kept his mirror sealed behind a barrier at all times, it aided him in maintaining his seclusion. The woods were home to many creatures and spirits, some more malevolent than others. While gods and elves alike stuck close to the safety promised by the gilded walls of their capital, Fen’Harel preferred the quiet splendor of life among the trees. There were those who joked that it was merely a reflection of his feral nature – that he had never truly embraced civilized life as his peers had. In truth, he preferred the scent of the air there, the feel of dirt beneath his feet. The forest had a heartbeat and music all its own. The city, though certainly awe-inspiring in its own right, could never compare to the simplicity and serenity of a more natural setting. He allowed the jibes to continue undeterred. A Wolf belonged in the woods.

__

He discarded the shape of the Wolf before reaching the great wall that bordered the city, slipping quietly out of the forest in his cloaked disguise. He stuck close to the shadows, keeping a keen eye on the guard who stood before one of the gates. It was a smaller entrance – one not as well-protected as the prominent Eastern and Western ones. Getting past him was mere child’s play. A quick diversion, some subtle misdirection and soon the Dread Wolf was making his way through the upper portion of the city itself.

__

He moved quickly, staying out of sight. Night gave him an advantage, but it was still important to take precautions. He did not wish to be seen. Not when the appearance of a pauper made him stand out as an unwelcome ruffian among the glittering splendor of this section of the city. He could have used his Eluvian to move closer to his destination, but the chances of being recognized in the midrealm were higher. Here, he was simply another figure in the night, moving at a swift pace, likely to be mistaken for a thief if he was not careful to avoid detection.

__

It was of little consequence. His disguise would better serve him once he’d reached the midlevel of Arlathan.

__

The city was split into three distinct regions. His journey began in the domain of the gods and their honored freemen – priests, priestesses, the Exalted, and the servants that lived within the shadowed corners of estates for whom they toiled. The nobles made their home here, their king seated in a palace that nearly matched the magnificence of the gods’ separate temples. Glistening spires of crystal, golden towers that appeared to float up towards the Heavens, barely tethered to the ground below – opulent grandeur in each direction. The streets were wide and pristine, well-lit by enchanted stones that paved the path, thrumming with energy beneath his feet with each step, casting a faint flickering glow.

__

He was able to slow his pace as he moved into the middle tier of the city, relaxing his stride to better blend in. Here, he would not look so out of place. This area was home to free men and women, though of a distinctly lesser affluence than the honored few. Slave-sellers and their markets dominated this portion, where the desperate peddled flesh to keep themselves from bearing the vallaslin. It was a relatively small section of the city, by all accounts. The gods had little interest in keeping a thriving population of elves living in freedom.

__

He pressed his scarf across his nose, his feet padding silently against cracked stones as the level of filth around him increased. The air took on a sickly scent – blood and waste and sweat. This was the grand furnace of Arlathan, the foundation upon which the shimmering majesty rested. This was the district of June’s manufactories, places in which his slaves toiled, hands worked raw to give physical form to his designs. This was where the slave breeders kept their establishments, forcing the unwilling into producing the replacements for lives tossed aside so carelessly. This was the place where those slaves not kept within their masters’ homes slept. The lowest of the low- streets lined with small shacks in varying states of disrepair, faces peering from windows and doorways, weary and worn, held atop tired and broken bodies.

__

Fen’Harel slipped quietly into an alleyway, finding it empty. He lingered, waiting, his lips curling into a smirk beneath his scarf as his eyes fell on a word, scratched roughly into the side of the building next to him. He let his fingers run over it, tracing the letters, resisting the urge to let out a self-satisfied laugh.

__

It was a message, carved by the hand of a slave for others held in bondage to see. A rallying cry. A quiet rumbling that would soon be a roar. _Stand tall_. The other gods did not know it yet. They would not sully themselves by visiting such dark corners of the slave quarters. They did not know how the underbelly of Arlathan now trembled, how the foundation was teetering on the precipice of its own collapse. His kin did not know how this word would soon make them tremble, how it would be forever burned into their consciousness.

__

But they soon would.

__

“Solas, falon.” Fen’Harel turned as he heard the voice whispering behind him, spotting the small reflective glow of two violet eyes peering at him from the darkness. He tugged the scarf down from his face, returning the greeting. It was a code phrase, a subtext, a way to identify an ally. Upon confirming who he was, the elf drew closer, stepping out into the dim light. His lips parted to speak, but Fen’Harel lifted a finger, inciting him to pause as he made a sweeping gesture. A sigil flared in the ground beneath them, fading slowly like dying embers beneath their feet.

__

“It is safe to speak, Felassan,” Fen’Harel said calmly. “None shall hear us.”

__

The young man lowered himself into a deep and dramatic bow. “You summon me, my Lord?”

__

Fen’Harel’s brow tightened, creasing. “You bow to me as if I am someone important while I am clearly posing as someone who is not. We are still within view of others who may see us. Have I misjudged your capacity for subterfuge?”

__

The man wore a look of faint amusement that he appeared to carry more often than not. “Take it as a sarcastic gesture, then, if that makes you feel better.”

__

“Anything new to report?”

__

He absentmindedly twirled a small stick between his fingers, shrugging. “Merely that June is a bore and his slaves hate him.”

__

Fen’Harel’s brow arched. “My apologies then for not assigning you to a more interesting target.”

__

The former slave grinned, the vallaslin of the God of Craft curling around his cheeks as he did. The markings had been placed there by Fen’Harel himself – a necessary cruelty to allow for infiltration. Despite the pain, Felassan was an eager volunteer. “His workers have been incredibly receptive to my careful nudging, however,” he added. “Especially when I told them how the Dread Wolf was freeing slaves from Andruil’s hunts. How he cornered her and attacked, had her bleeding and begging for mercy while her prey scampered off into freedom. They seemed particularly moved when I told them I saw it with my own eyes.”

__

Fen’Harel’s lips pursed tightly. “I can’t say I am amused by your fictions, Felassan.”

__

He waved his hand dismissively. “I may have exaggerated some details, true. But I’ve often found that the further from the truth you get, the better the story. And a good story can be an effective motivator.”

__

There was truth in at least one part of the tale – Felassan had been rescued from one of Andruil’s hunts by the Dread Wolf’s intervention. He’d been a slave who had rebelled against his master one too many times to go unpunished. There had been no great confrontation between the Wolf and the Huntress, however. Instead, Fen’Harel used sabotage and carefully-laid misdirection in order to lead Andruil’s prey to safety. Felassan abandoned the name his master gave him along with the vallaslin that the Dread Wolf took from his skin. And when Fen’Harel restored his magic that had been taken from him in order to keep him a good and docile slave, he pledged himself to his service.

__

“The slaves will be ready to act when I give the word,” he continued. “June will have a nasty little surprise on his hands when his property begins a full-scale riot.” He gestured with the stick. “Once I have conveniently torn the place to pieces, they are ready to destroy virtually anything that isn’t nailed down on their way out the door.”

__

“And you feel confident you can accomplish this?”

__

“I’ve learned my lessons well,” Felassan replied respectfully. “Granted, I have had to adjust to having my magic restored, but senseless destruction comes easily enough.” There was a look of danger in the man’s eyes that Fen’Harel could appreciate.

__

“Good,” the Dread Wolf said with a grin. “I will coordinate with those tasked to secure their transport. When this is over, falon, I will see that you go with them.”

__

“All due respect, my Lord,” he began, bowing his head, “I would prefer reassignment. Hiding away in some safe haven is all well and good, but I would rather be given the chance to stir up more trouble. Perhaps with Falon’Din next? I always found him to be a pompous ass.”

__

Felassan’s face beamed at the sound of the Dread Wolf’s laughter. “Very well,” the god answered with a nod. “Await my signal. Be prepared to act but until that moment do not let anything fall under the overseers’ notice. If we are to succeed, we will need to catch them by surprise.”

__

Felassan smirked, his fingertips playing over the stick pinched in his grasp. “Trust me, my Lord. They will not see me coming.” 

__


	4. Chapter 4

The hour was late, the sky threatening to spread the early light of dawn by the time Fen’Harel returned to his estate. He drew back the barrier to the building’s rear entryway, slipping inside. Though physically tired, he was driven by his racing thoughts. Soon, his rebellion would be impossible to ignore. So far, he had the others of his kind convinced that his actions were little more than a means to antagonize Andruil. In truth, it was a believable ruse, given their longstanding dislike for one another. But he knew the illusion would not last long. Soon, there would be an escalation, a stirring among the slaves that could not be ignored or written off as isolated events. He knew that suspicious eyes would quickly shift in his direction if he was not careful.

He wound through the back corridors, intent on reaching his chambers in order to disrobe. The familiar wisp appeared again, darting and twitching, dancing through the air in front of him when it wasn’t following closely at his heels. He stilled as he neared the main hall, tilting his head as he slowly inhaled through his nose. He could smell the faint hint of magic, a heavy ozone scent. Something powerful.

He steadied himself, eyes narrowed as he moved forward, cautiously stirring energy into his fingertips. The air crackled against his skin, coming to life in his hand as he caught sight of the braziers, lit and steadily flickering along the hall’s perimeter. He knew for a fact they had not been burning when he took his leave. He crept toward the archway that emptied into the great room. Beyond it laid a gnarled oak tree – one of a set that stood guard on either side of his throne. He slipped into the shadows cast by the tree’s trunk, his eyes scanning the space ahead. All lay still, moonlight filtering in through the crystalline walls, dappled by the canopy above, firelight dancing into flickering prisms in each reflection.

“Out late, old friend?”

The voice made him jump as Mythal leaned forward, peering at him from the edge of his throne, her brow arched curiously. He dismissed the magic he’d been summoning, yet his caution remained. He knew he was in no danger of her attacking him, but her presence there was enough to give him pause. His actions were supposed to remain hidden – even from her. It was still too early for anyone to find out. His forces of freemen were still relatively small, a tiny speck compared to the vastness they were up against.

“I was not expecting visitors,” he said smoothly, eyes narrow as he stepped further into the hall, trying to make light of his apprehensive entry. She leaned back against the high marbled arch of his seat, white stone veined with silver. She appeared rich and resplendent on such a pale backdrop. Long tendrils of golden hair draped along her form, reaching well to her hips, wrapped and coiled in accenting strips of burgundy ribbon. The hair at her crown was pulled back from her face, lifted and bound until it mimicked horns; only fitting for the Dragon Goddess. She was still dressed in her finery from court, a spiked tungsten diadem framing her brow, robes of scarlet and maroon accented at her waist with a jeweled belt to match her circlet.

She was a Queen among gods and even now, she unquestioningly looked the part.

“Apparently so, given your attire,” she hummed, eyeing him from head to toe. “That and the barrier you placed on your Eluvian does much to dissuade visitation. My compliments, da’fen. It took me quite a lot of effort to break through. Far more than it should have, considering my skills.” Her head tilted as she rested her chin delicately on her hand. “I am curious as to how you achieved it.”

He smirked. “I am certain you are, falon.”

“Still so cheeky?” she asked, grinning. “It is good to see my husband did not dampen your spirits.”

He laughed dismissively, shrugging. “It will take much more than that to sway me.”

“So it would appear.”

“To what do I owe your visit?” he asked respectfully.

Her eyes fixed on him, no longer hiding her intrigue behind subtlety. There was power behind Mythal’s stare. Under her piercing golden eyes, it was easy to feel as if she could see well beyond any façade. “In matters of courtly machinations, you have always been a deft player, Fen’Harel,” she began. “Once, there was subtlety in your actions. Your manipulations would leave many unaware that you had a hand in them, even in the aftermath. But now it appears you would abandon that for childish outbursts,” she said bluntly, her eyes narrowing. “It is not for lack of skill. So it must be a conscious choice.”

He kept his face as neutral as possible, wearing nothing but a slanted grin. “I’m certain I don’t know what you are-”

“Don’t be coy with me, Wolf,” she snapped, a harder edge creeping into her voice. It was a chastisement. A minor threat. “I know you far too well for you to play games with me.”

He maintained his smile, even as a steady tension grew in his chest. “I am only having a bit of fun and Andruil’s expense, Mythal.” He could tell she was unconvinced so he broadened his smile. “It is little more than a petty squabble. She and I have been on poor terms for millennia. This should come as no surprise.”

She angled her head back, looking down the length of her nose. “Don’t lie to me, boy. You’re clever enough to know that will not work on me. Unless you have lost your intellect along with your subtlety.”

His smile quickly twisted into a scowl. “A rather bold accusation, Mythal. What proof have you, then? None, I suppose, as there would be none to be found. It is a trifling game and little more.  Now, if you will excuse me, it is late.”

He began to dip into a bow, stiff-backed and frustrated, but her voice stopped him. “ _You will stay_ ,” she said firmly. His lips pursed as he righted himself, resisting the urge to ball his fingers into fists. Her expression softened, as did her tone. “Do not misunderstand me, falon. You and I are not so separate in our views.” Though he tried to keep it hidden, a wary confusion crept into his eyes. She righted herself in her seat, staring at him intently, her gaze adding weight to her words. “We cannot keep to these ways forever.”

“I do not know what you-”

“Yes, Fen’Harel,” she said sternly. “You know precisely what I mean. You intend to better the lives of slaves, if not free them altogether.”

He froze, uncertain how to respond. Friend or no, her knowledge of his plans put him in a dangerous position. “I see the need for such alterations to our way of life,” she said delicately. “A system that depends upon the labor of those who are forced into bondage is inherently unstable. The will to live freely cannot be crushed completely, even from the tamest of slaves. We are breeding our own enemy. An army that will eat us from the inside out, if we are not careful.” She paused, evaluating him with her gaze. “My thoughts are not far from your own, I suspect.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You expect me to believe that?” he snapped. There was a flash of anger in her eyes and he knew he should stop his tongue, yet he persisted. “Those poor fools sent to die by Andruil’s hand are sent there by the authority Elgar’nan grants _you_ , Mythal. Their blood is on your conscience as much as his. A single word from you and all of this could be done with – and yet you claim to see all of this and you do nothing to change it?”

She lifted an eyebrow, tilting her head. “Am I doing nothing?” she asked pointedly. “Is that what you see?” She paused for an answer that he did not give. “I do not craft the laws by which my judgments stand. I take no pleasure in sending a runaway slave to die. But I am not the sort of fool who believes that by simply saying it should not be so that it would change hundreds of years of the established social order. If you think that I could end the practice of slavery with little more than will and words then I fear you have greatly overestimated my power.

“I may not be the one who leads, but I can guide the head of he who does. It is a _game_ , da’fen. I am carefully setting up the pieces so that they may fall into place by my own design. Our means are much the same. The difference between us is that you are impatient. You want results now. I am willing to wait because I know change takes time. You have a gift, Fen’Harel. You have the skill to surpass even myself, one day, if you would simply apply it. There is more power in quiet contemplation, more power in subtle gestures, more power in calmly stepping into the background while pulling the strings of those around you. You can have what you want if you are willing to wait.”

“Tell that those who are being thrown against the swords of the Others in battles they did not choose to fight,” Fen’Harel hissed, his fists clenching, “or those being raped and beaten by their masters on a daily basis. Tell that to those who are breaking their bodies to build temples dedicated to gods who are indifferent to their suffering. What little comfort they would take from knowing that The Great Protector would rather wait instead of _protecting them_.”

She appeared unmoved by his anger, nodding calmly. “So, your passion in this is genuine. Your concern for the slaves is not some idle passing thought that you will abandon in the coming decades?”

He hesitated, but realized that there was no point in maintaining the lie with her. He was already reformulating his plan, recalculating his course as he answered. “No. It isn’t.”

To his surprise, Mythal smiled. “Good.” He tilted his head. “Hold onto that. Use it as your fuel, but do not let it burn you. You could be a force to be reckoned with, if you would assume your place in this dance. Accept your role within it. Stop your petty outbursts. They will only earn you the ire of your peers. Use the tools that are already at your disposal. Use your seat in the court rather than bristling against it. Soothe them so that none will suspect you as you go about your work. Once you stop resisting, then you can make the change you want a reality. Do not let your impatience lead to your ruin.”

She lifted herself from his throne, head held high as she stepped down from the small platform it rested upon. “Where are you keeping the slaves you have freed so far?” He froze for a moment, his lips drawn, studying Mythal closely. Having her know of his intentions was enough of a risk, but drawing her directly into his plans would put lives in danger if he miscalculated his trust. She smiled. “You are right to want to protect their location, but I assure you, I mean them no ill-will. Though I will say – if you have them hiding away in some encampment in the woods, they will be easily found. It may take a while. You are clever enough that you would not make it easy – though not nearly as clever as you believe, my Wolf.” His eyes narrowed. “You know as well as I do that you will not fool the other gods indefinitely.”

“Is that so?”

“I am not interested in your wounded pride,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I take it you have removed their vallaslin?” He stilled for a moment before nodding. “Good. Then they will be much easier to move freely into my temple.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Did I stutter?” she asked, the corner of her lips quirking upward. “Wherever you are hiding them cannot be as secure as my southern temple. They would be guarded by my sentinels. You cannot watch their backs every single moment. You know that they would be far safer there. There are many secret passages and rooms where they can safely live undetected. And I trust my warriors with my life. I can attest that their loyalty is unwavering.

“Have them sent to the temple in small groups, filtering in as if they are simply followers seeking guidance and the opportunity to pledge themselves to me. Once there, have them seek out one of my servants – the one called Amelan. He alone I trust with this task. Have your freemen tell him that they follow the vir’fen and he will know what to do.”

He stared at her a moment, thinking. “Take no offense, falon,” he began delicately, “but how am I to know that you do not simply intend to add to your own slaves from those who I send to seek shelter with you?”

She tilted her head, giving him an appraising look. “You think I would force them back into bondage?”

“It would appear to be a peaceable solution,” he said, a chill in his voice. “You care for me enough to want to protect me from your husband and the others. So if you managed to stop my actions before I am able to progress any further, then you can reap the benefit. I lose my resources, my rebellion is crushed, and you have a healthy new population of slaves bound to your will.”

“You are smart to question me, Fen’Harel,” she said with a laugh. “That does sound like something I would do.” She stepped closer, reaching her hand out to cup his cheek, her fingertips brushing behind his ear. “A show of good faith, then. I offer a gift.”

He did not resist as she pulled him closer, angling his head down as her lips pressed gently to his forehead. There was a sudden buzzing in his skull, a cool rush flooding behind his eyes. He could see things, comprehend things, secrets and hidden magics rushing into his consciousness at a speed that defied comprehension. He took in a sharp breath as she broke the kiss, the sensation instantly ceasing – yet the knowledge remained.

He looked up at her in amazement, her hand still cupping his cheek. “I trust you with this, da’fen. You will give it to your people. Teach them. Show them what they need to know to care for themselves, to use the magic that you will restore to them. You will not always be there for them, falon. If you intend for your rebellion to succeed, you need them to be able to thrive in the freedom you grant them.”

This was not the kind of support he expected from her and for a moment, he was speechless. Lips parted but eloquence fled. All he could manage was a simple “thank you.”

“Be cautious, old friend,” she said softly, pressing her forehead to his own. “I do not want to see you come to a violent end.”

He reached up, curling his fingers around her wrist, his eyes closing. “Nor I you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Amelan sound familiar? The Codex tells us that Abelas changed his name to "sorrow" after Mythal's passing - so for now, he has the name Amelan which means "protector". 
> 
> Vir'fen - the wolf's path  
> da'fen - little wolf


	5. Chapter 5

Rain battered down on the barrier he shielded himself with. It would keep him from being soaked, though there was little to be done about the mud sinking between his toes. The Dread Wolf did not mind getting dirty, by any means. He was not some dainty creature, so spoiled by finery that he’d forgotten what it was like to live in the raw filth of nature. But the hills in this region were drenched, his feet slipping as saturated earth released their hold on the roots below him, his steps sinking further into the muck.

Yet with each grimace, he reassured himself that he had selected a proper location. Few would think to wander through these lakeside hills and none would look over the open expanse and suspect that his people lay nearby.

He pulled his cloak tighter as the chill winds whipped at its hem, his eyes scanning the empty horizon as he neared the entrance to the cave. He frowned as he spotted the Wolf statue sitting alongside the rock face. Were the fools trying to announce their presence here? He knew their superstition motivated this new addition to their encampment. Statues in his likeness were said to frighten off corrupted spirits. Still, it had no place being there. Not only did he know it was a useless gesture, but if it were spotted, all his attempts to keep them well-hidden could be nullified. He supposed it would not matter for much longer, now that their relocation was so close at hand. Still, their continued deification irritated him.

He caught the scent of magic, felt the subtle buzzing in the air as he moved into the cavern and he smiled. At least they had not lost sight of their need for security. He spotted the faint glow behind a dip in the rock face and lowered his hood. “Solas, falon,” he murmured.

The glow faded as suddenly as it had appeared and a pair of green eyes peered out from behind the stones. Recognition quickly flooded her features and the woman dropped to her knee, keeping her face down. “Forgive me, my Lord. I did not know-”

“Get up,” he snapped, continuing his approach. She stood, keeping her head down. Such behavior grated on him, yet he consciously softened his tone. These people knew him as a god and believed wholeheartedly that he was to be treated as such. The mere act of summoning at the approach of one of his kin could see her killed in normal circumstances. “You did me no offense, da’len. Lift your eyes.” She was clearly nervous as she obeyed, but eased somewhat when he smiled. “Have you had any unexpected visitors recently?” She shook her head quickly, saying nothing. He said little else, a passing encouragement to keep alert, as he moved further into the passage. He walked effortlessly through the barrier ahead. It was of his own making, designed to allow entrance without complication to those he permitted. He could already hear the echo of trickling water up ahead, the waterfall flush from the heavy downpour outside as it emptied into the hidden grove.

The settlement was always intended to be temporary, but his small band of freemen had clearly taken to it as their new home. They had little more than tents for shelter, but they were well-shielded from the elements, both by the surrounding stone and a barrier to seal off where it opened to the sky. The only permanent structures within were two large hart statues – leftovers from a time when this place held a ceremonial significance for Ghilan’nain’s followers.

It looked more and more like a village each time he came, despite the lack of formal housing. There were paintings decorating the stone – one of the murals depicting freemen riding triumphantly into battle. A fantasy, for now, but one day a possible reality if all went according to plan. When he first created this haven for them, there had been only a few former slaves – cowering and frightened, dreading whatever demands he would make of them, certain that there would be some price to pay for his benevolence. Some of the newer arrivals held onto similar fears, but most understood that his intentions were noble.

He was aware of the eyes that fell on him as he moved further into the grove. Some bowed their heads, others clutching fists to chests in an honorific gesture, most with whispered greetings on their lips – still too timid to speak plainly with the Dread Wolf. He did not have to seek out Thenrian. It was a small grove and within moments of his entrance, the man was jogging toward him.

“My Lord,” his general greeted quickly, bowing.

“Have you completed your work on the mirror?” he asked.

“Yes, my god,” Thenrian answered. Fen’Harel bristled slightly, but said nothing. He was not a god and did not wish to be addressed as such, but it was an argument he was tired of having.

“Show me.”

“It would be my honor.” They walked together then, the Wolf setting a brisk pace.

“How fare the People?”

“Well,” the man answered. “This is not a permanent solution, but we are able to get by with the blessings you have provided us. Though I do wonder how many more we will be able to add to our ranks before we run out of room.”

“That is no longer a concern,” the Dread Wolf replied. He slipped a small rolled parchment from his robes, handing it to the man. “We will begin relocation as soon as possible. The most vulnerable first. Non-combatants.”

“As you wish.”

They drew closer to the mirror, Fen’Harel closely inspecting their handiwork. The glass remained cracked, though all of the pieces were replaced with delicate care. His lips quirked slightly as he brushed his fingers over the mirror, a faint glow on his fingertips as the Eluvian began to ripple, radiating beams of light like liquid gold along each jagged scar. One by one, the traced lines healed themselves, pressing and molding until nothing remained but the smooth and unbroken reflection.

“Perfect,” he murmured.

“I do not mean to question you, my Lord,” the man said, a strained hesitancy in his voice, “but you are certain that none will try to pass through here?”

“There is a reason I selected a shattered and discarded Eluvian for our use,” Fen’Harel explained calmly as he set to work, weaving a barrier to place over the glass. “The mirror in the midrealm that connects to this one would appear to be little more than a broken passageway- unusable and therefore unassuming. Only those who know of our purpose would even think to activate it.”

“And if another does?”

“I would not leave you unprotected, falon. I am placing the same form of barrier upon it that I use in my own home. Not even the gods can manage to penetrate it.” _Save for Mythal,_ he thought dryly, though he kept that to himself. “I would not fear anyone passing through who does not have my blessing to do so. Barriers are a particular specialty of mine,” he added with a grin.

He stood back, evaluating his handiwork before giving a short nod. “There,” he muttered to himself. With this, they would be able not only to evacuate Felassan’s slaves quickly, but they could also let the elves go unseen to Mythal’s temple. “Now,” he said, turning to Thenrian, “gather my generals. We have a new target to discuss.”

* * *

 

The meeting went smoothly enough, held within a tent and protected with a glyph that would limit the number of eyes and ears that could bear witness. He could not afford to trust all those he freed implicitly. Though slim, there was always a chance of betrayal and he would not risk the lives of others unnecessarily. Their next target would be one of the slave breeders. Rather than use methods of infiltration as he had with June, Fen’Harel determined a more combative strategy would be preferable. Attack at night, free the bound from their captivity and kill anyone who stood in their way. It was a riskier move – it implied an organized force rather than a simple isolated slave revolt. Yet if they succeeded, they would cut off one of the major suppliers and limit the number of new slaves being taken into bondage.

The potential costs were outweighed by the benefits.

Fen’Harel exited the tent, making his way back to the Eluvian. His path was marked with the sounds of the camp – dozens of conversations at once – spats, flirtations, the laughter of children and the chiding of their adoptive parents. The sounds of normal living – something that these elves never had the privilege of experiencing. There was more work to be done, far more work, and yet he could not help but be warmed by what he saw growing here. The slaves were thriving despite their circumstances.

It reassured him that what he was doing was right.

He slowed his pace as he neared the mirror, eyeing a youth who stood before it, his fascinated inspection leaving streaks from greasy fingers on the glass.

“I would not touch that.”

The boy startled, whipping around, his eyes growing wide as he took sight of the Dread Wolf. He threw himself to his knees, his forehead tucked low to the grass.

Fen’Harel frowned, stepping closer. “Rise, da’len. I do not want you to bow to me.” The boy obeyed, stiff-backed and eyes downcast.

“Sorry, my Lord,” he stammered. “I was only curious. I… I have never touched an Eluvian before.”

 _Probably a low-level slave, once,_ Fen’Harel mused. _Certainly not a personal valet._ “What is your name?”

“Falon’Dines Saros.”

The Wolf’s brow tightened as he shook his head. “You are no longer his slave. You belong to no one but yourself now.” He reached down, hooking the boy’s chin with his finger, lifting his gaze. “Do you understand?” he asked softly.

The boy nodded. “So… just Saros?”

Fen’Harel smiled. “Yes. Just Saros. Or another name, if you so choose.” His eyes drifted downward, spotting a curious object hanging around the boy’s neck. He turned the jawbone lightly between his fingers. “And what is this?”

The boy seemed to return to his mild state of panic. “Farenera and I found a dead wolf while we were scavenging outside of the grove… We didn’t kill it, I swear,” he added quickly. Another superstition, held strongly by the People – the thought that killing an animal sacred to one of the gods would bring down their wrath.

“You would not have been in danger of offending me if you had, da’len,” he reassured him.

“I wanted to wear it to honor you,” he said, a little bolder now as a small smile threatened to crease his cheek. “I want to be like you, Fen’Harel. I want to fight to free others.”

The Dread Wolf could not help but smile, roughing his fingers through the boy’s hair until a proper grin curled on the child’s face. “Freedom is a noble goal. We would all be better off if more were in pursuit of it.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Fen’Harel slipped into the midrealm cautiously, eyeing his surroundings to reassure himself that he was alone before sealing the Eluvian behind him. He moved swiftly then, aiming to distance himself from the mirror as quickly as possible in case anyone should come upon him. The path to his own Eluvian would not take long and he did not wish to linger.

He could see her in the distance, slowing his approach as she stood before his mirror. Her head shook with frustration, white hair spilling over her dark shoulders as she huffed, her hands feeling the barrier before her curiously. A slow smirk curled his lips as he silently stalked closer. He delighted in the small gasp that escaped her as his hand moved to the small of her back, his chin tucked close to her ear. “And where might you be headed, little halla?”

Ghilan’nain’s startle settled quickly with a laugh as she turned, milky and unseeing eyes shifting towards his face. “You make social calls very complicated when you seal off your mirror like this, ma fen.”

“There are not many who would show any interest in coming to my home for a mere visitation,” he admitted, his voice warm as he lifted her hand with his own. His fingertips tingled against her skin as he manipulated the spell, drawing her through the barrier with him and into his Eluvian. She did not shy away from his touch as many others would and allowed him to guide her through the main hall of his estate. Though blinded, Ghilan’nain could still see, in a sense. She once described it to him as a second sight, being able to feel the vibration of the ambient magic around her, sensing shape and movement to varying degrees of detail depending upon her level of focus. Despite this, he could not help but remember her as she had been before – one of the People, lesser in power, blinded and bound and left for dead, crying out to whichever god would listen to her pleading. Her helplessness was what concerned him the most. Even then, when his empathy for the People was less developed than it was now, he was repulsed to see such senseless cruelty. If she had not been one of the favored Exalted of Andruil, surely her prayers would have gone unanswered. But the Huntress, though flawed in nearly all ways, was fiercely loyal to her chosen few. To act upon them was to do her insult.

The man who had committed the violation paid for his crimes tenfold.

“Andruil would not be pleased to know you’ve come here,” Fen’Harel chided playfully. “Is this to be our little secret?”

“I am not overly fond of secrets, Fen’Harel,” she said, her tone far less jovial than his own. “In part, that’s why I came.”

His smile lessened slightly. “Ah. So. Not a social call but rather a lecture?” He let her hand fall from his, moving across to slump down against his throne. “Or perhaps Andruil sent you here herself? Does she think that my fondness for you will sway me where her threats have failed?”

She pursed her lips, sighing as she folded her hands. For far too long they had done this dance – their friendship constantly strained by her allegiance to the Huntress who so hated him. In years past, Andruil had not been so violently passionate in her disdain for him. The Wolf and the Huntress simply disliked one another and both tolerated Ghilan’nain’s divided loyalties. While her patron did not approve of their friendship, she did little to stop them from continuing to enjoy each other’s company. Things had soured since Andruil’s return from the Void. The pair now tiptoed around the Huntress’s newfound rage, socializing only when her awareness was not so keenly focused on her acolyte. As much as it irritated Fen’Harel to do so, he complied for the sake of Ghilan’nain’s comfort. Their continued association put her in a difficult positon. It would have been far easier for Ghilan’nain to simply forsake their friendship. In some ways, it still surprised him that she hadn’t.

“You can make her the villain in your narrative, if that is what suits you, ma fen,” she began patiently, “but she has her role to play, as do you. A wolf should not judge a hunter for taking their prey.”

“A wolf doesn’t hunt innocent lives for sport,” he bit back at her.

“Yet none of them are innocent, Fen’Harel,” she said, her head tilting. “You know this. They have broken our laws, been judged and found wanting. Andruil is merely executing justice.”

“Justice?!” He let out a cruel laugh. “She is a sadist. A madwoman. She toys with them, makes them die painfully, slowly, terrified.”

“Or, she allows them to live, to truly value life by knowing what it means to fight for it in the moments before death,” she countered. “The story can be told in whatever way you choose, falon. It does not change anything.”

“Your loyalty to her will be your undoing.”

“And your loyalty to no one will be yours, ma fen.” Her brows lifted, a weary sadness weighing on her features as she stepped closer, reaching to place her hand over his own. “I do not need eyes to see that we are headed down a dangerous path, falon. And I fear you are the one plotting our course.”

“It is just a game, little halla.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “As much as I know you enjoy irritating Andruil, that’s not why you’re sabotaging her hunts.” She squeezed his wrist, her brow lowering. “I know you, Fen’Harel. You want to help them.”

He studied her features. He doubted she suspected any of his activities outside of what he had already admitted before Elgar’nan and the others. Intuitive as she was, Ghilan’nain was not a creature of cunning. The only threat she posed to him was in her sense of loyalty to the Huntress.

“You of all people should sympathize with them,” he said softly.

“They have my sympathy,” she answered.

“Then you should support me.”

She shook her head, lowering the tilt of her chin. “We are each bound to our own fates, Fen’Harel. Mine lies with the goddess who saved my life – who gifted me godhood.” He cringed, slipping his hand from her grip and she frowned. “That is what we are, ma fen, no matter how much you wish to deny it. I have known what it is to be Lesser in a way you cannot.”

“I do not want to see you swept up in all of this,” he said, careful to remain vague and yet the sentiment was genuine. “You know it will not end well. Eventually, each of us will have to pay for what has been done to the People. I don’t want to see you punished for the others’ sins. You are not like them.”

“Is that so?” she said with a wry smile. “Because I recall a time in which I was considered monstrous for the beings I brought into this world.”

“But you saw your mistake. You corrected it.”

“I destroyed innocent life – creatures whose only true crime was existing. But yes. I did what I was asked to do.” She reached forward, feeling for his cheek and he moved into her touch. “As Exalted, I took a vow to serve Andruil in this life and in the next. My ascension did not negate that. My place is at Andruil’s side.”

“Please-”

“You saw how Elgarn’nan reacted to you. The anger in his voice. The sharpness of his magic. You know how close he came to…” Her words trailed away, a tight crease forming in her brow. “Promise me you will not get yourself killed over this foolishness.”

“Ghilan’nain-”

“ _Promise me_ , ma fen,” she added firmly.

He let out a slow sigh, closing his eyes. “I promise, little halla.”

Her face softened, her thumb stroking gently against his cheek. “Sometimes loyalty is more important than your pride,” she murmured. “I can only hope you learn that before it is too late.”


	7. Chapter 7

Steadily as the weeks passed, the carefully-laid dominos began to fall. First, one of June’s collectives rioted and fled, seemingly disappearing into the night and leaving nothing but a smoldering wreckage in their wake. Then, one of the breeder’s compounds was found in the early hours of dawn containing little more than rows of empty beds and the bodies of dead guards, their throats slit with the accuracy and care of an assassin’s blade. A slaver’s auction house in the middle district collapsed in on itself – yet when the rubble was cleared, all the cells were mysteriously unoccupied.

Their numbers were growing.

Fen’Harel barely took the time to shed his clothing, carelessly strewn across his quarters as he made the path to his bed. His day had been filled with pointless obligations that wore at his thinning patience. Following Mythal’s advice, he returned to the routine of courtly life, making all of the gestures necessary to assure the others that his recent change in behavior had merely been a fleeting preoccupation. The evening had taken him from his home, disguised once more and cloaked in darkness, personally leading a raid on the estate of a noble. Lemren was an Exalted of Falon’Din and shared his god’s thirst for flesh in quantity. His home was a sprawling complex, well-guarded and secured with barriers, housing a small army of slaves.

It made for the perfect target.

The night had gone successfully enough. Some were injured, some killed, but most made it out alive and into Mythal’s temple. The ever-dour Amelan appeared less-than-pleased at the sudden intrusion into the holy house, but he fulfilled his pledge of service to Mythal and saw that the slaves rescued were well cared for. Fen’Harel found the sentinel leader rather charming in an odd fashion. The pale-faced servant was not afraid to express his lack of respect for the Dread Wolf – something that even the bravest of nobles would not dare risk expressing to his face. But he had a duty to fulfill, even if he disapproved of his goddess’ alliances. Fen’Harel found his honesty refreshing after what felt like an eternity surrounded by cowering and frightened sycophants.

Sleep came quickly, his body sinking against the press of cool silken sheets. The next morning would see him rise early once more. Another meeting. Another set of hours wasted performing for the benefit of his kin. He knew it was needed, as much as he resented it. He needed them to see the man he once was – the one who appeared apathetic to the well-being of the elves, who took nothing seriously, who sought his own amusement over any cause of substance. It would make them complacent. It would lower their guard. It would allow the Wolf to prowl undeterred at night while they looked down from their gilded towers, secure in the knowledge that their lives were set and unchanging.

He wasn’t aware of how long he’d been asleep when the sound woke him. Dazed, he could barely make out the commotion – something falling, shattering. He took a quick, deep breath, blinking back sleep as he sat up, listening. Another sound, another crash and he was on his feet, stumbling into his breeches, barely grabbing a robe to throw over himself as he rushed from his room. He drew magic into his skin, breathed it in, let it course through his blood and force his mind into an alert state.

Someone was in his home. He had to be ready.

He flew the length of his hallway, down the stairs and into the main hall. Deft steps, silent as he listened, seeking the source of the sound. It was quieter now. No more clattering or the shifting of broken glass. They must have broken through one of the hinged sections of the glass walls, portions intended to open to allow the passage of fresh air. The glass was thinner there – easier to smash through if one was determined enough. It was shocking to think anyone would. This was still considered a holy place, even if he disregarded the notion of his own divinity. Someone would have to be truly desperate to desecrate the temple and residence of the fearsome Dread Wolf.

Desperation was exactly what he found. He discovered the woman in one of the hallways adjacent to the main room, covered in blood and staggering. Tawny freckled skin, moonlight highlighting a trail of contusions on her face and arms, her black hair loose and wild as it fell from its binding. Small dashes and lines cut away at her bruised cheeks, circling her brow, diving down the length of her nose. A slave. Someone marked as Dirthamen’s property.

Her pale eyes widened when they met his, the purity of her terror palpable as she rushed forward, throwing herself at his feet. “Mercy!” she choked out, gripping the edge of his robe, her breaths heavy with panic. “Please. Please, my Lord, forgive me. Help. I beg of you. I need your help. I’ll do anything!”

He pulled the robe from her clutches, only for her hands to move to his calves, gripping his legs. “What is the meaning of this?” he snapped harshly and the woman winched hard enough to let out a pathetic whimper.

Her voice was shaking, her words tumbling forward in a rushing torrent of fear. “Please, forgive me. Forgive me, Fen’Harel. I… I had nowhere else to go. I was… I heard whispers that you took pity on slaves. Please. Please, I’m begging for your protection. I will perform whatever rite, whatever ritual, please, _please_.”

“Let go of me,” he said firmly and she lowered her hands, pressing her palms to the floor, her eyes never lifting from the black stone tiles beneath them. “Is that your blood?”

She was quivering as she shook her head. “Not all of it, my Lord.”

“Then whose is it?”

“My master,” she said, the sound catching in her throat as it tightened. “Neldis, High Priest of Dirthamen. He was…. He….” She closed her eyes tightly, her hands shaking as her nails scraped against the floor. “I had no choice, my Lord. He was going to kill me. I thought… I panicked. I hit him and then I…. I hit him again.”

Fen’Harel fell still. “Is he dead?”

She hesitated, her breaths pinched in her throat, quick and tight as she swallowed hard. “Yes, my Lord.”

He crouched down in front of her, crooking his finger and lifting her chin, the woman visibly flinching at his touch. He forced her to look up at him, studying her features. Her eyes darted between his own, looking much like a terrified rabbit about to meet a set of clamping jaws. “You are certain?”

“Yes,” her voice cut off and she cleared her throat, trying again with limited success. “Yes, my Lord.”

This close, he could see how badly she had been beaten – swollen flesh looking tender around one of her eyes, her brow scraped and bruised as if thrown into a wall or to the floor. Her upper lip was badly split on one side, raw and angry, twitching as she stared at him, panting. The woods had taken their toll as well, her skin marred with scratches where the overgrowth had whipped her in her flight. “How did you get here?”

“When I saw what I’d…” Her words halted and she closed her eyes, taking a breath, struggling to start again. “When I saw what I’d done, I ran. I didn’t know where to go, so I fled the city. There were guards at the wall… they spotted me, tried to stop me, but they lost track of me in the woods. I… I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You ran into the forest in the middle of the night?” His eyes narrowed. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“Please,” she whispered her eyes glassy with welling tears. “Please, I’ll do whatever you wish of me, serve you however you ask, I swear it.”

“I do not want your service,” he said tersely.

Her eyes widened, her breaths hitching. She reached forward, desperately gripping his arms, lowering her head once more. “Mercy, I beg of you, Fen’Harel. Please do not turn me away. I have nowhere to hide. They will kill me for what I’ve done. I cannot… please. Please-”

“Stop,” he said firmly and her voice halted. He softened his tone, lifting her face once more. “What is your name, da’len?”

“Nathra,” she whispered, her trembling voice barely giving breath to the sound.

“Calm yourself, Nathra. I do not want your service, but that does not mean I am turning you away. Do you understand?”

Her relief was overwhelming, tears on her cheeks as she tightened her hold on him. “Thank you. Thank you, my Lord god. Praise be to Fen’Harel, Lord of Tricksters, Roamer of the Beyond and Bringer of-”

“Stop that,” he snapped. She fell silent once more, though tears continued to fall upon her cheeks. He sighed, lowering his voice. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He coaxed her into standing, trying to soothe her shuddering breaths as he led her through his home. Each step seemed to pain her, her back arched, her feet shuffling and so he guided her arm to his shoulders, holding her by the waist, easing her with his body. He had a spare room – a small space within the lower level of his estate that would more than suit her needs. He needed to get her settled so he could see to her injuries.

When they entered the room, he lit the braziers inside with a flick of his wrist, turning up his nose at the stale scent of dust. Admittedly, it had been a long time since he had entertained guests. Much of the furniture was covered in protective sheets that he carefully peeled back, trying not to kick up the thin layer of particulate that had settled over them. Despite the setting being less-than-ideal, she marveled over the room, eyes wide when he told her it would serve as hers for the evening.

“You honor me,” she whispered timidly.

“Nonsense,” he said quickly. “It is simply a bed. You deserve no less, in your condition. Sit.” She lowered herself to the edge of the newly-revealed mattress as he gathered the bundled dust cloths in his arms. “Wait here,” he demanded, not waiting for a response as he turned and left the room. His fatigue was thinning his patience and he could not help but let it creep into his voice. He was certain there were not many hours left before he’d have to rise again to prepare for his day. The sooner he finished with seeing to her well-being, the more moments of sleep he could steal away before morning.

He deposited the cloths unceremoniously, retrieving the various items he required. The armload was cumbersome, the oversized pitcher heavy in his grip, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge with each step, but he was determined not to slow his stride. One of his robes as draped over his arm – certainly too large for her, but it would have to suffice for now.

When he returned, he was surprised to find her naked - stripped and sitting once more against the edge of the bed, looking up at him nervously. His brow tightened, creasing, but he did not slow, setting the clothing aside as he neared the room’s wash basin by the footboard.

She must have noted his displeasure because she spoke softly as he poured water into the vessel. “Sorry, my Lord. I… I could not bear to have his blood on me.”

He said nothing, focusing instead on soaking a cloth in the basin. He knew her bare skin should not bother him. He had seen more than his fair share of women in various states of undress. He knew their bodies intimately, as suited his desires, and there was little in that regard that could shock him. It filled him with a level of discomfort only because of what she was. She was waifish, but not starved-thin. Her hands had been smooth when she gripped his arms. She was not a laborer. She was young, beautiful and relatively well-kept. The clothing he’d found her in was silken – not the high quality of nobility, but certainly not what one would put on a housemaid or a child’s nurse. It did not take much in terms of deductive work for him to imagine what services she had probably provided her master.

Nudity probably meant little to a woman who did not own her own body – who had never before been allowed to determine how it was exposed to others.

“Come here,” he said softly, patting the end of the bed closest to him. She obeyed, shifting over. He allowed his eyes to lower to her form, clinical in his study of her, inspecting the severity of her wounds. He traced his eyes over the bruises along her hips and knees, turned her to see the heavy discoloration along the small of her back. “I am going to touch you to heal you,” he murmured. “Is that alright?”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing in confusion and he wondered if she even understood the notion of consent. After a moment, she nodded. He made quick work of it, brushing fingertips over skin until the purpled marks began to lift and fade, the scratches sealing to a smoothed finish. She would certainly still be sore given the strikes that she took, but he eased the pain as best he could. He finished with her face, touching her lightly, wiping away the swelling around her eye, the bruising on her cheeks. She watched him as he did, silent, her expression difficult to read. It was possible she was unfamiliar with tenderness, or that it was a quality she did not expect from the Dread Wolf. When he drew his hands from her face her gaze lowered again.

“You should clean and dress yourself,” he said, indicating the basin and the robe that lay nearby. “Get some rest.”

The press of her hand into the crook of his arm stopped him as he turned to leave. When he looked down at her, she appeared uncertain. “What will you do if people come looking for me?”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he murmured.

Her grip on his arm tightened, her lip pinched between nervous teeth. “Will you stay here with me?” she asked timidly. “I… I’m afraid to be alone.”

He slipped her hand from his arm, shaking his head. “You have nothing to fear, Nathra. You are safe here.”

He turned to leave then, closing the door behind him, letting out a slow sigh. Despite the recent developments of the evening, he could think of little more than returning to the comfort of his own bed. The familiar wisp lingered nearby, flittering in and out of his line of sight as he dragged himself back up the stairwell.


	8. Chapter 8

Morning came far too soon. The Dread Wolf rose, bleary-eyed, dragging unwilling limbs out of bed. He stretched, muscles aching as he slowly breathed magic into his body, trying to will away the weight of sleep. He slipped into his clothing from the night before, consciously reminding himself that he was no longer alone in his estate. Some semblance of modesty would be more appropriate than his usual habits as he left his room to draw himself a bath.

He was soon slumped into the embrace of warm water, stoking the heat with his fingertips, allowing his head to slip below the surface. The temptation to simply stay there and disregard his obligations to the court pulled at him. He would certainly hear about it later. Part of him relished the idea – the angry and fruitless ranting that Elgar’nan would likely do in his absence. But he knew he could not risk the All-Father sending someone to fetch him. While there were many places in his home where Nathra could hide, he did not want to give anyone the excuse for an unsolicited visitation while he was housing a wanted murderer.

He rose for air, reaching for a bottle at the tub’s side, scrubbing lather into his hair. It had been a tangled mess lately due to his lack of interest in taking any time to maintain it. Some days he wondered if he’d be better off simply not bothering anymore and chopping it all off. His thoughts wandered as his hands worked mindlessly. He pondered over Nathra’s circumstances. While it would not justify it in the slightest, he wondered if she had done something to trigger such a punishment – or if Neldis had simply used her as a means to feed his own need for violence. He felt no pity for the priest she killed. There was no room for compassion in his heart for a man who would beat his slaves.

Still, it left her in a precarious position. A slave killing their master was a crime deemed severe enough that not even Andruil’s hunts were considered suitably cruel as punishment. If caught, her death would be anything but merciful. It would be a long, drawn-out affair – her torment set on display for others to see. She would be used as an example to those of her kind that the gods were not to be trifled with and slaves should know their place.

He rinsed himself, reluctantly stepping out of the bath and reaching for his towel. He was casting away the chill in the room when he heard the door behind him begin to open. He frowned, turning, flicking his wrist to slam the door shut with a brush of magic. He heard her let out a surprised whimper on the other side of the threshold. “Do you not know how to knock?” he called out to her angrily, drying himself.

“I’m sorry, my Lord” she stammered.

“You should still be asleep.”

“I heard you were awake and I thought… I just wanted to see if there was anything you needed, my Lord.”

“What could I possibly need from you when I’m in the bath? Go back downstairs.”

“Yes, my Lord god.”

He bit back the urge to correct her as he heard her withdraw. He would quickly grow tired of the constant address of “my Lord” if she persisted. By the time he had dried himself and wrestled his hair into something half-way presentable, he could hear her banging about in his kitchen. Cabinets opening and closing, the clatter of drawers being sifted through. He pulled on his clothing, heading quickly down to the lower level to find her.

She was searching the room thoroughly, kneeling up on his counter as she reached back into the depths of one of his cabinets. His robe hung loosely on her, tied awkwardly at her waist and pooling low on her shoulders. She had water heating over a fire, items strewn about as she shifted them out of her way. “Nathra-”

The sound of his voice made her jump, the cup in her hand clattering to the floor. She gasped, startled, whipping around to face him, perched on the edge of the countertop. “Forgive me,” she choked out quickly, hopping down to the floor, picking up the shards of broken porcelain. “I was… I don’t know where anything is in here. I was looking for some tea…”

“I don’t drink tea.”

“Oh.” She seemed thrown by that news, her eyes nervously darting as she rose to her feet once more, clutching the broken cup. “My master always had…” She set the pieces down, shaking her head. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. What would you have me make for you?”

He frowned. “I wouldn’t have you make anything for me.”

“But-”

“Nathra,” he said sharply. “I do not want you behaving as my servant. Is that clear?” It didn’t look clear from the way she stared at him, her brow creasing. He stepped closer, lifting her chin. She did not shy away as she had the night before but watched him warily as he brought his other hand up, blue light emanating from his palm as he swept it slowly in front of her features, melting away her vallaslin.  When he finished, he gestured to the glass wall beside her where she could catch the faint halo of her reflection. “Look.”

She frowned, confused as she obeyed. Her expression shifted into something altogether strange when she saw her own face, bare and unmarked. Her fingers went to her cheek, tracing the lines now absent from her skin, eyes filled with an indescribable look of shock. “You are no one’s slave,” he said, “so do not behave as such. You did not trade one master for another.”

She was silent for a time, looking back up at him with something halfway to a smile on her lips. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“Fen’Harel,” he corrected.

Her gaze lowered, her voice softening. “Thank you, Fen’Harel.”

 _Better,_ he thought. It would take time for her to adjust. He should not expect it to happen overnight.

“Treat my home as your own,” he said. “You are welcome to whatever food or other amenities I can provide. All I ask is that you at least attempt to put things back where you found them. The walls are enchanted – you can see out, but no one can see in, so you need not fear exposure. The estate is well-secured, but as you know, there is always the possibility that someone could force their way in. If anyone enters, hide. Do not come out for anyone but me, no matter what they may say. Do you understand?”

“Wait,” she said in a rushed panic, clutching his sleeve, “you’re leaving?”

“I have obligations I must attend to.” He gave her a sympathetic look, brushing a piece of hair back from her face. “You are safe here, da’len. I will not see any harm come to you.”

She caught his hand before he could pull it away, pressing a kiss into the base of his palm. “Thank you,” she whispered. He lowered his hand from her touch with a nod.

* * *

 

He decided to exit through the Eluvian that was set in the high district and walk the rest of the way. The distance was not far and it would allow him time alone to think. He had only stepped a few paces before he casually noted the ravens circling overhead. Though he did not turn fully to see them, he was well aware of their presence, hovering in the distance and yet trailing him as he walked.

His suspicions were confirmed. Even with his recent play-acting in the court, it did not take long for Dirthamen to suspect that he was somehow involved in the mysteriously disappearing slave. He wasn’t surprised. The Keeper of Secrets was no fool and knew just as well as he did how to present a false face among their kin.

He made no attempt to travel with any anonymity this morning, dressed in the finery expected of a court appearance. Even those nobles pledged to rival gods knew to show their respect as he approached, parting to allow him passage, bowing, offering hails and praises. He wondered, in moments like this, how Falon’Din could have possibly found this form of kowtowing pleasurable. At best, it was a show of respect that he could find some small appreciation for – but when repeated ad nauseam, it was a meaningless irritant.

Even so, he could still hear faint murmurings about the murder – conversations silenced when the participants would spot him – yet he heard enough to know that news had travelled fast. This was no surprise. The murder of a High Priest was an action of note. Priests and Exalted were supposed to be the favored ones, blessed with the protection of their chosen god. The fact that a slave committed the act and escaped would make the news far too salacious to avoid gossip. Certainly there were slaveholders among them who were made nervous by the revelation. Fen’Harel could not help but take some small pleasure in that thought. They should be nervous. They should fear what the slaves were capable of.

He spotted Dirthamen as he neared the temple, leaning against the wide stone railing of the entrance’s front steps. The god maintained a casual air, seeming to catch sight of the Wolf as he stood there and ate, his teeth sinking into the reddened flesh of a ripe piece of fruit. Fen’Harel continued on his path, well-aware that the god had been waiting for him despite his nonchalance. Dirthamen rose from his position, stepping closer as he swallowed the last bites, sucking juice from his fingertips. “The first harvest of the season is always the best, wouldn’t you say?” Fen’Harel merely hummed in response as the god fell into step beside him, retrieving another piece of fruit from his pocket. “The orchards at my west-most temple overproduced this year. I fear I may have to turn much of the crop to wine simply to see it not go to waste. You are partial to them, if I recall?” he said, gesturing with the fruit as an offering.

Fen’Harel shook his head, maintaining his false smile. “Not hungry. Thank you.” Dirthamen knew full-well it was a flavor he was partial to. Clearly he wanted something.

“Hmmm. A pity. Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, breaking the skin with his teeth. “You know,” he said, daubing the corner of his lips with the back of his hand, “the strangest thing happened last night.”

“You don’t say?”

“It appears one of my High Priests was murdered. Quite scandalous. Surely you must have heard by now?”

“I will admit, the news was rather difficult to miss,” Fen’Harel said with a note of apathy. “It appears to be on everyone’s lips.”

“Curious,” Dirthamen said, his tone light and jovial. “Everyone is saying a slave committed the act and yet she appears to have vanished into thin air.”

“Curious, perhaps, but not surprising,” the Wolf countered. “Some people will do anything to attain their freedom.”

“I suppose,” Dirthamen said, nodding. To anyone outside of this conversation, it would appear to be idle chatter between friends rather than the dance they both knew they were engaged in. “You wouldn’t happen to know where a slave could disappear to, would you?” When Fen’Harel’s eyes met his, Dirthamen gestured dismissively with the half-eaten piece of fruit. “I only ask because you appear to be so interested in the goings on of the subjugated Lesser.”

Fen’Harel smiled, laughing as they entered the main hall. All of their kin were in attendance already, save for Elgar’nan. “I should be honored you think so much of me. I engage in a little idle fun to aggravate Andruil and now you credit me with knowledge of some slave underground?”

Dirthamen chuckled brightly. “I realize it is a bit of a stretch. Still, you can’t blame me asking.”

“Can’t say I’d be of any use. I’d recommend asking the Huntress for help in tracking the culprit, but I believe she is still struggling to sniff out the other criminal slaves that escaped her notice. She’s losing her touch.” He heard the low hissing breath exhaled from the woman as he moved to his seat. Even as he did not look up, he was certain Andruil was glaring daggers at him. Dirthamen laughed at the jest nonetheless.

“But you would let me know if you did hear something of her whereabouts, wouldn’t you?” Dirthamen pressed, “As one friend to another?”

“Of course,” Fen’Harel said, stretching out against his throne. “What? You think my sympathies lie with murderers now? You know I am not one for violence without cause. Such acts require punishment, no question.” He would have said more but Elgar’nan swept into the room, his presence announcing the start of proceedings.

“I knew I could count on you,” Dirthamen said quietly as he withdrew to his seat. Despite the warm smiles between them, Fen’Harel’s mind raced. He was certain Dirthamen did not know definitively that he was hiding Nathra, but he had to be the main suspect. He would increase the security of his barriers – make it so that none could enter his estate without his permission. He had intended to have her moved to Mythal’s temple that evening, but he now knew he was being watched. It was not safe. He couldn’t afford to have his arrangement with Mythal discovered. He needed to allow time for things to quiet down. Perhaps he could create a diversion. He still had her bloodied clothing. He could send one of his agents to make a false trail. She had disappeared into the woods, had she not? It would be simple enough to create the illusion that she had met her end in the wilderness. Given the dangers that lay in the depths of the forest, it was likely she would be presumed dead. It might cool Dirthamen’s suspicions, or at least shift his attention away long enough to transfer her safely among the others.

For now, though, he had to be cautious.


	9. Chapter 9

The meeting took much longer than he had anticipated and by the end of it his patience was strained thin. He was anxious to return home – tired of the charade, of placating rather than provoking them, of hiding his desire for direct confrontation behind a smile. The sky was already dimming by the time Elgar’nan ceased his endless tirade about the importance of unity, security and military strategy against the Others. He spoke of how those who dared challenge the Creators’ right to rule deserved nothing but their enmity and hatred. He shouted that they would be crushed; that any who supported them would be cut down. It was a thinly-veiled threat that all knew was directed toward him. Elgar’nan’s tolerance of his relationship with their rivals from the Void was tenuous at best.

Fen’Harel saw through the bluster. The God of Vengeance was not winning this war. The fighting was far from the borders of Arlathan, out of the edges of Elvhenan’s territory. It was easy for most to forget they were in an active conflict as they fell into repetitive cycles of battle with their opposition. Century upon century of senseless fighting, each side stacking their dead and disregarding their losses, gaining nothing but an occasional shift in border placement. In the end, the Creators always stayed the rulers of Elvhenan and the Others remained in the Void, each preparing and plotting for when the next cycle began.

After such a long time, it felt more like sport than war.

He used the Eluvians to return to his home, eager to shut himself away from the world. The hum and buzz of his mirror passed over him, silken energy on skin as the light faded, his feet finding purchase on the familiar feel of his own floor. He blinked curiously as he saw Nathra hovering by the long banquet table that normally sat empty in his main hall. There was a single place setting and a meal laid out, the scent hitting his nose and forming a pit in his belly as she quickly looked up, throwing herself into a bow.

“I was hoping you’d return soon,” she said, keeping her head down. “I was worried it would grow cold.”

“I did not ask you to cook for me,” he said tersely.

“You didn’t eat before leaving,” she said cautiously. “I… I thought you’d be hungry.”

It was undeniably true. He had not had a chance to eat throughout the day and despite the fact that he did not want to encourage her to serve him, the thought of passing up on the meal on principle alone made his stomach object. “You should not have gone to the trouble,” he said.

“I thought you would be pleased,” she said, her expression faltering. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said, running a tired hand over his brow. “I will eat on the condition that you join me.”

“You would have me at your table?” she asked, pale green eyes widening. It would be unheard of for a slave to sit at the table of a god. Even among nobility, it was seen as a high honor.

“You need to eat, do you not? Besides, there is far too much table here to expect me to dine alone,” he added dryly, the hint of a smile on his lips. She beamed up at him, humbled as she nodded.

“You honor me, sir. I will… I’ll fetch another plate.” She scampered away then, his robe still hanging loosely off of her form. He made note to get her some proper clothing of her own. He could not be seen obtaining it himself without raising questions, but he could have it smuggled to him easily enough.  

She was quiet as they sat together. She kept her gaze down, avoiding eye-contact as she nervously picked at her food. He wasn’t certain if he found the behavior irritating or endearing. “So, Nathra,” he said, swallowing a sip of wine. “Tell me about yourself.”

He had hoped the invitation to converse would put her at ease, yet she seemed startled by the inquiry. “I am certain I have nothing to say that would be of interest to one such as you, my Lo… Fen’Harel.” She caught and corrected herself quickly.

“You presume to know my interests?” There was a brief flash of panic on her face and he smiled, laughing softly. “You do not need to fear me so. Come, speak.”

She nodded, her fingertips picking at the roll she’d been slowly tearing into pieces. “There is not much to tell, honestly. I was purchased when I was very young. Put into training for the services wanted of me,” she said delicately, “and when I was deemed ready, I was given to Neldis as a gift. I don’t remember what he did to earn me. Since then, I’ve served in his house. Cooking occasionally. Entertaining guests. Warming his bed when he demanded it.”

“I am less interested in how your master defined you,” he said, leaning forward in his seat. “It gives me clues as to your experience, but tells me little of who you are.”

“I… I guess I don’t know how to answer, then.”

“Tell me of your aspirations,” he said softly. “What do you intend to do with your freedom? What sort of life do you dream of?”

She was quieted by the questions, her hands stilling, setting the roll back down on the plate.  “I don’t know,” she said after a moment’s pause. “No one’s ever asked me that before. I suppose I’ve never really thought about it.”

He hummed thoughtfully, nodding. While somewhat disappointed in the response, it was not unlike ones he had heard before. “Well I assure you, you will have plenty of time to think it over,” he said, returning to his food.

“Forgive me for asking… I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” she began cautiously, “but how long will I be staying here?”

“For a time,” he said. “Your disappearance has drawn some unwanted attention. We must wait for tensions to cool before I feel it is safe to move you.”

“Where will I go?”

“There are others like you,” he said, his wineglass lingering near his lips. “Freed from enslavement. I will take you to them.”

“You have them hidden away?”

He nodded slowly. “You will be safe among them.”

They continued their meal in relative silence. When finished, he rose, gathering the used dishes. “I should do that,” she said, pushing her chair back.

“Nonsense,” he said, “you cooked. I will clean.”

“You wash dishes?” she asked, her brow arched.

He couldn’t help but laugh at her genuine confusion. “I live alone, Nathra. Did you assume I simply discarded them after each use?”

She peered at him a moment before chuckling. “I suppose I’ve never really considered that.” She rose from her seat, helping to clear the table despite his insistence. “I guess that means you cook too.”

“I cannot simply will food into being.”

She followed him as he moved toward the kitchen with the stack of plates and bowls. “And you wash your own clothing…?”

“As I do not walk around in soiled robes then yes, it stands to reason to assume that I do my own laundry.” She tittered and he could not help but grin. “How do you suppose a man with no servants is supposed to function?”

“You are a god,” she said. “I just… I have a hard time picturing a god scrubbing his breeches,” she said with a giggle.

“Well, yes. I assure you, it happens from time to time,” he said dryly, setting down the dishes. He eyed her as she automatically moved toward the basin he used for cleaning, filling it with water. He was surprised as she brushed her hand over it, a subtle glow at her fingertips as she heated it with magic.

His eyes narrowed. “You have not had your powers suppressed?”

She glanced at him. “No. My master… Neldis… he had certain intimate preferences that could only be fulfilled with magic,” she answered awkwardly. She shook her head, her gaze distant. “He probably thought I was too frightened of him to ever use it against him.”

“You are rather unique, then,” he said, taking the basin from her and moving it closer to the pile. “Most in your position have never learned to use the magic they were born with. It often takes time to control it when you have not grown up with the abilities.”

“Is that something you help people with?” she asked, lifting herself to sit on the edge of the counter. “Slaves, like me?”

“Oftentimes, yes.” He answered, beginning to rinse the dirtied plates. “Though now some of the first that I freed know enough to help the newer arrivals.”

“Have you freed many?”

“Not nearly enough. One day I hope to have all those who would be enslaved live as freemen.”

Her gaze softened, her head tilting. “Do you really mean that?”

He smiled, nodding. “I do.”

She said nothing then, seemingly content to watch as a god went about the menial task of cleaning his kitchen. While a little baffled by her fascination, he made no objection to indulging her in that regard.

* * *

 

Silken sheets shifted slowly against his skin. Fen’Harel stirred, moaning groggily as he felt something move beside him, a weight settling onto the mattress. He was only half-awake when he felt a warm palm cup his cheek, a pair of soft, wet lips meeting his own. For a brief moment, he let himself linger there. The feeling was undeniably pleasurable – a sensation he’d missed. It had been some time since he’d felt the warmth of a woman’s mouth against his skin. Many of his lovers had been among those he turned away when he disbanded his disciples. She was tender in her touch, her hand slipping down to his neck, trailing down his chest. Her tongue teased, tentatively brushing against him before he regained his senses, pushing her away.

Nathra looked down at him, confused.

He sat up, carefully shifting the sheets to keep from exposing himself, lighting the room’s braziers with a flick of his wrist. He could see her clearly now – bare as she had been the night before, freckled tan skin and pale green eyes, her black hair loose about her shoulders. “What are you doing in my room, Nathra?”

“I… I thought that…” There was a familiar panic on her face, that fear of retribution for a misdeed that she always seemed to linger under the surface of her expression. “Do you not want me?”

“What led you to believe that I did?”

She lowered her eyes, chewing on her lip nervously. “You have been kind to me when you had no reason to. And I have no other means to repay you,” she said softly. She looked into his eyes once more, leaning closer, her hand moving back to his jaw. “I give myself freely-”

He held her back, catching her wrist and lowering her hand from his face. “It is not given freely if you feel you must bed someone as payment.” He had difficulty reading her expression. She appeared confused. Baffled. Perhaps she did not understand what he was saying – that or the idea that he would turn down her advances had never occurred to her. He brushed hair back from her face, softening his tone. “Your body belongs to you alone now. When you offer it to someone, do it because you want to – not because you feel you must.” Her brow tightened, lowering as she searched his face. “This is not something I want from you. You owe me nothing.”

“But…” she stopped then, nodding as she lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he murmured. “I know you meant well.” She was silent for a moment longer before he lifted her chin. “Put your clothes on, da’len. Go back to bed.”

She obeyed, wordlessly crawling off of the bed and slipping back into the robes she had discarded beside it. She cinched the belt around her waist, watching him as her brow lifted. “You are not angry?”

“I am not angry,” he answered, his voice calm and level.

She nodded and silently left the room. 


	10. Chapter 10

“They are still looking for her.” Mythal said calmly.

Fen’Harel kept his eyes forward, gazing out over the horizon. The view here was truly breath-taking, its effect not lost through familiarity. The gardens of her temple were lush, hanging greenery bending to the will of the carved stone that surrounded it, overlooking the city of Asariel. The sound of the sea was ever-present – a soothing rhythmic heartbeat of water. As grand as her southern temple was, he much preferred the tranquility this place offered.

“I am aware,” he said, nodding.

“The ruse was clever enough,” she said. “Your girl is quite the topic of gossip among the nobles. The murderous slave who vanished into the woods. Torn remnants of her bloodied clothing found among a particularly gruesome trail of gore. They are spending far more time speculating over which one of Ghilan’nain’s creatures did the deed than they are questioning whether or not she has been killed. Dirthamen’s followers remain a problem, however.”

“Dirthamen himself is the problem,” Fen’Harel muttered.

“He does not trust you.”

“Do you blame him?” he asked tersely. “Neither one of us are exactly among his favored. Not after Falon’Din’s fall from grace.”

“Dirthamen understood what had to be done.”

“He understands, that does not mean he forgives. No matter what he says – Dirthamen hates you for leading the charge against Falon’Din and he sees me as little more than your attack dog for the role I played in stopping him.” The Dread Wolf narrowed his eyes, studying her a moment. “Don’t tell me you believe him when he says he holds no grudge. His gestures of pleasantry are merely a diversion-”

She held up her hand to silence him. “I know the role he plays within the court. One cannot trust that he holds allegiance to any but Falon’Din.”

“He continues to watch me,” Fen’Harel said. “I’ve spotted his ravens tracking my movements ever since Nathra stumbled into my home. As long as he has his eyes on me, I cannot risk moving her from my estate.”

“Are you certain you are not using that as an excuse?”

The Dread Wolf frowned, turning to face her fully. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Mythal smiled warmly. “Old habits, my friend. You have been alone for a very long time. Now, you have a pretty little girl who needs saving-”

“It’s not like that,” he said, shaking his head. Mythal hummed dismissively and his scowl deepened. “Say I try to have her smuggled into your temple and Dirthamen discovers it. I cannot risk the lives of the others. If he learns of their location, they will no longer be safe.”

“He would not desecrate my temple,” she insisted.

“Perhaps not. But he knows what to do with dangerous pieces of information. We would be fortunate if blackmail was the only goal he wished to achieve with it.” Fen’Harel shook his head. “As much as I want to protect the girl, I am not a fool. I know Dirthamen could make a move against me. He could have his men storm my temple and take her by force, if he dared. I would do everything in my power to stop that from happening – but if it came down to losing her or losing all the rest, I have to be willing to make that sacrifice.”

Mythal nodded slowly. “Good. I will admit, da’fen, I had my concerns.”

He smiled softly. “It would take far more than a pretty face to sway me from my course.”

* * *

 

Nathra’s voice suddenly cut into his senses as the hum of the Eluvian passed over him. Fen’Harel sealed the mirror, smiling despite himself as he heard her soft lilting song echo through the hall. It had been so long since he’d heard any form of music in his home that he’d almost forgotten how brilliantly sound reverberated off of the walls, ringing against crystal until the whole of his estate was filled with a resonance so broad one would think they were witnessing some celestial chorus. Though her voice was quiet, it still whispered with perfect clarity through the air. Following the sound, he found her in his study. A number of tomes were neatly stacked and set aside on his desk. She stood on tiptoe atop his chair, dusting off the bookcase that served as their resting place. She was still wearing one of his borrowed robes, this one slumping considerably low off of one shoulder as she moved.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Her song abruptly halted and she jumped, startled as she turned to look at him. She settled quickly, giving him a soft smile. “There is little for me to do here when you’re gone,” she said, finishing the final sweep along the lip of the shelf. “I don’t mind it. I prefer to keep my hands busy.”

He set down the parcel he’d been carrying, unwinding the cording that bound it. “I have something for you.” Her brows perked up, curious as she slipped down from the chair. He pulled back the stiff paper wrapping, handing her the folded pile of clothing held inside. “Considering the circumstances, I was unable to procure these myself – so there may be some discrepancy in sizing.”

Her eyes widened, staring first at him and then at the clothes before cautiously taking them. She appeared speechless as her lips parted, pausing, whetting them before starting again. “Thank you,” she whispered, running a reverent hand over the bundled fabric.

He chuckled. “Don’t thank me too soon. We have yet to know whether any of it will fit.” She smiled, laughing softly. “Go, then. Try them on, if you like. I will finish up here.” She was more than eager as she nodded, quickly stepping out of the room, hugging the gifts to her chest. He had not thought of them as such – he considered them merely a necessity – yet it was clear that she took it as a much kinder gesture than he had intended. It hurt nothing to allow her that assumption.

He had only just finished setting the last tome into place by the time she crept back into the room. Fen’Harel had not had any hand in the selection of the clothing, leaving the task entirely to the freeman he sent to the marketplace with a generous amount of coin. He looked her over curiously. It was not quite as simple as he would have chosen. Though not the finery of nobility, it was still of a quality one would expect from a fairly wealthy merchant. She was biting her lip, gripping the neckline nervously. “I… I had trouble with the closure,” she muttered sheepishly.

He walked over, gesturing for her to turn. “Such designs are usually not intended for those dressing themselves,” he said, his fingers working over the three buttons that rested between her shoulder blades. “Though from what I have seen, it simply is a matter of practice.” She studied the way the skirt moved as she shifted, gripping and smoothing the fabric in turns. She smiled broadly as she looked up into his face.

“I’ve never had anyone…” she paused, shaking her head with a small laugh. “Thank you for this. Truly.”

“Were the others sufficient?”

“Sufficient?” She giggled softly. “They’re marvelous.”

“Well, they are yours.”

She studied him a moment, her brow lifting. “You are much kinder than I would have assumed, Dread Wolf.”

The corner of his lips tugged slightly. “A trait many would not find in me, I fear.”

“I’m going to miss you when I leave.” She seemed to second-guess the words after she said them, lowering her gaze as she backpedaled. “Not that I want to impose any further than necessary. You have already been far too generous. I only mean to say I am grateful.”

“It will still be some time before I can have you relocated,” he said. “You are free to take that as a comfort, if you wish.”

“I do,” she answered quietly.


	11. Chapter 11

There was a reason Elgar’nan never ventured down into the Void.

The Others had known this, of course. It was why they chose this as their place of retreat. Centuries ago, their coup against the All-Father had failed. Facing a war they could not win, they sank themselves into the shadows. They allowed the abyss to swallow them whole. Even so, they never admitted their defeat. To them, the war never ended. They were not hiding, licking their wounds. They were simply waiting for the next opportunity to strike, convinced that soon they would make the killing blow against the All-Father.

Fen’Harel could see that they were touched by madness.

It was a side-effect of spending too much time in the Void. The very stones there glowed with corruption – red and pulsing veins like rivers of fire trapped along nearly every surface. They were faint yet noticeable nonetheless and he could feel their aura on his skin each time he made his descent.

The Others had made a grand home for themselves here. Though strikingly different from the glittering spires of Arlathan, the Void had its own form of splendor. Theirs was a city carved into an endless sea of blackened stone, polished and smoothed. Miraculous structures were interconnected through a system of pathways – roads and bridges, snaking from side to side, the city tunneling down into the depths rather than spreading out into a horizon. He walked the familiar route briskly, orbs of veilfire floating, disconnected and adrift in the air, lighting his way. Though cloaked in the guise of a social visitation, he was there to serve his own ends and did not wish to stay any longer than absolutely necessary.

Fen’Harel did not consider the Others his kin, but he cultivated that assumption in those he associated with. There was a time when they had his sympathy. They never claimed false divinity as the Creators had. But their time in the Void had changed them. Where before they were indifferent to the People, now they desired cruelty. They wanted power for the sake of power – glory for nothing more than the delight of destroying those weaker than they were. They were everything he deplored – but they were useful. It was a game and he was the only one who could manipulate all of its players. Despite their doubts about his loyalty, both Elgar’nan and Geldauran saw the value in having a man who could provide information on their loathed enemy. They both tolerated him for his usefulness in that regard.

The leader of the Others greeted him with far more enthusiasm than the All-Father could ever muster and the Dread Wolf flashed a bright smile as the man embraced him, clapping him across the back. “An unexpected surprise, my friend.”

“My apologies,” Fen’Harel said, nodding as he pulled away. “I have been away far too long. I trust I have not caught you at a bad time?”

“Even if you had, I would always make time for my Wolf.” His lips peeled back, baring his teeth as he stepped briskly across the sitting room. “Come. Drink with me.”

Fen’Harel did not object to the generous glass of wine that Geldauran poured him. It was to be expected. The man regularly appeared under the impression that if he got the Dread Wolf drunk, he’d be foolish enough to let his tongue slip on some vital piece of information about the Creators’ vulnerabilities. It was a sloppy attempt at subterfuge, but Fen’Harel never made his awareness of it known.

“Always a pleasure,” Geldauran said, gesturing for the Dread Wolf to sit as he stretched himself back on a plush arrangement of pillows. “Tell me, to what do I owe the honor? Did you tire of the gilded hypocrisy of Arlathan?”

“I tired of that many ages ago,” Fen’Harel answered. “I simply wish to catch up. A social visit.”

“It never is with you,” Geldauran said with a grin.

Fen’Harel shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “Perhaps I wished to hear from your lips the state of your affairs? Elgar’nan has been so keenly focused on your kin as of late.”

“Let the pompous ass bellow all he wants,” Geldauran snapped. “The more he shouts, the more it proves that he knows his end is nearing.”

Fen’Harel laughed. “You really believe you can beat him this time?”

“Maybe if I had some assistance from the inside…”

Fen’Harel’s eyes narrowed but he did not wipe away his smirk. “Come now, old friend. You normally extend the pleasantries far longer before inevitably asking me to undermine the Creators from within. I’ve barely even had a sip of wine.”

Geldauran laughed, a bright, round sound rumbling deep in his belly. “True,” he said, raising his glass and taking a swig. “Imagine it, though. No more of these little hints between us. We’ve played this game many times before. You tell me a little of your people, I tell you a little of mine. You pick and choose what you share with either side to stir the pot, so to speak. I can respect that.” He leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. “But if we were to truly work together, we could tear apart the entire system. Overnight, I’d imagine, given the things I am certain you know. Elgar’nan would never see it coming.”

“You flatter me if you think Elgar’nan would never suspect me of betrayal,” Fen’Harel said, lifting his glass to his lips. “After all, I am sitting here and speaking with you, am I not?”

Geldauran hummed, nodding. “Do you not think he permits it because he trusts you?”

“I think he permits it because I sometimes come back with interesting things to tell him,” Fen’Harel said with a shrug. “That and he probably assumes I am too frightened of him or too frivolous in my nature to make any real moves against him.”

“Are you not?” he asked, his tone hardening. It was a challenge as much as it was a jest.

“My actions are set by my own whims, not the bellowing of a tyrant,” Fen’Harel answered. “I will leave it at that.”

“Fair enough.” Geldauran peered at him curiously, taking another sip of wine. “You and I are much alike, you know.”

“Are we now?” the Dread Wolf countered with a grin.

“You put as much faith behind all this god nonsense as I do,” he said, his head tilting. “Your kin can call themselves divine all they like, but you know what we are. We take what we want because we can, because we will it – not by any higher power than our own actions.”

“Indeed.”

“We both see that the Creators are blind to their own folly. We see that they will bring about their own demise. Their pride will be their undoing. It is merely a matter of time.”

“So fatalistic, my friend,” he chuckled. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You do not deny it, however.”

“I see many paths the future could take,” Fen’Harel said, “I will not deny that that is one of them.”

“Is it not a future you would want to see come to pass?”

“Where’d be the fun in that?” Fen’Harel asked, smiling. “I am so enjoying loitering along the edges of both sides – watching the two of you squabble back and forth. If one of you falls, there will be none left to toy with.”

Geldauran’s smile grew. He lifted his glass in a toast. “To entropy, then?”

Fen’Harel lifted his in return. “To sweet, delightful chaos.” He drank to his toast despite the falseness of his demeanor. He could see qualities in Geldauran that he did admire, though they were mired within a twisted and selfish lust for power. There was an honesty to him. He never claimed to be anything more than he was and he wore his greed openly. He was an undeniably cruel man, as many of his kin were, but their disdain for the Creators and their false claim of godhood was something he could not deny sharing. Even so, their motivations were starkly different. Fen’Harel wanted to make change in order to better the world. Geldauran wished to take it for himself. 

He could never allow himself to forget that fact.

* * *

 

He did not expect to see Nathra waiting for him in the main hall as he slipped through his mirror. Her eyes lifted quickly as she scooted herself off of the edge of the table where she sat. “Why are you not in bed?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, peering at him. “I was worried when I saw you were gone. Is everything alright?”

“Nothing to bother yourself with,” he said, replacing the barrier over his mirror.

“Where were you?”

He glanced at her briefly before offering a weak smile. “Try to get some sleep, da’len.”

He said nothing else as he retired to his quarters.


	12. Chapter 12

Nathra could hear him shouting, his voice carrying through the halls of his temple. The sound made her shudder, her stomach feeling tight with worry as she slowly crept toward the source. She’d never witnessed his anger. Not truly. She’d seen Fen’Harel cross and irritated, but his voice never strayed far from his controlled demeanor. Now, he was practically growling, snarling, upset in a way that frightened her. She could hear another man snapping back at him, words thrown back and forth that came into clarity as she drew near.

“The Vir’abelasan makes for lovely scenery, no doubt about that, but we can’t just stay hidden away in her temple forever. We have enough people now. We should be taking the fight to them.”

“Absolutely not,” Fen’Harel said.

“Is this all there is to the fearsome Dread Wolf’s rebellion?” the stranger spat. “You would spend centuries tormenting your enemies, driving them into madness, ruthless to the point where they would gladly welcome death- but when it comes to actually backing up your words with action, this is all the People get?” Nathra inched toward the entryway to the main hall, lingering in the shadows provided by the oaks that bordered his throne. She wasn’t foolish enough to walk out into the open when he had someone in his home. She knew better than that. The stranger was a fairly slender elf marked with vallaslin, yet he addressed the god with a level of daring that no slave would. “All due respect, _my Lord_ , but we should be doing more. You have an army at your back and yet you would have us do nothing but these fly-by-night operations. There is an entire empire’s worth of people who you are doing absolutely nothing for.”

“Do not think for one second that I am unaware of that fact,” he hissed. “You are not an army. Not by the standards of my kin. If we struck out in the manner which you are suggesting, they would crush you without a second thought. This plan requires _patience_ if we are to succeed.”

The man quieted, lowering his gaze. Though his posture was still rigid, he let out a slow breath, nodding. Fen’Harel grasped his shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he lowered his voice. “I know you lost a lot of good men last night. But needlessly adding to the body count will not do them any favors. Neither one of us can afford to allow grief or anger to spur us towards misguided action.”

The man stood silent for a moment before nodding again. “You’re right,” he said calmly. “My apologies, my Lord.”

“You do not need to apologize. I do not expect you to report to me without also providing your counsel. I know my contact has been limited as of late due to circumstances that are outside of my control. As soon as that issue is settled, I will be fighting by your side once more. We will have our influence known – I promise you.”

Nathra watched wordlessly as the men shared their parting words, the Eluvian opened to allow the slave to slip back into the midrealm. Fen’Harel paused after replacing the seal on his mirror. His face looked worn – his brow heavy with worry, his jaw clenched. She watched as he turned, moving swiftly down the hall that led to his study, the door slamming behind him. She stepped out of her hiding place, quietly padding toward the cellar.

* * *

 

Fen’Harel leaned forward, elbows against the edge of his desk as he traced the tension along his brow with his fingertips. He could not free himself from thoughts of dead soldiers and slaves, lives cut down because his group had been ill-prepared. Nearly twenty of his freemen went into a pleasure house to free the slaves kept there – a night raid that was met with far more resistance than they were prepared for. Only three of his men escaped with their lives, able to bear witness to the carnage they fled from. The guards were merciless, cutting down their master’s property alongside their would-be liberators. Those deaths dwelled on his conscience. His freemen gave their lives willingly, but the slaves they targeted had no opportunity to consent to the risks involved in granting them their freedom. He had cost them their lives by making that decision for them.

If he had been a part of the raid – if he hadn’t kept himself away for the sake of Dirthamen’s surveillance then perhaps he could have offered them more guidance. He could not help but feel that he should have done more. While there was purpose behind his avoidance, it was a choice he had consciously made.

Their deaths were the outcome of his choices.

He glanced up as the door to his study opened, Nathra poking her head in beyond the threshold. He let his eyes close again for a moment as he wiped his hand down his face. “What do you need?”

“I thought you could use a drink,” she said as she pushed her way into the room, carrying a carafe and a wine glass. “You sounded upset earlier. I thought this might help.”

He offered a weak smile in return, nodding as she set it down on the table. “That was thoughtful of you.” His gaze was distant as she poured the drink, though he felt her eyes on him.

“Are you alright?”

He took the glass as she handed it to him, nodding. “I will be. Losses are never easy to accept, as necessary as they sometimes are.”

“I’m sure whatever it is, it’s just a minor setback,” she said softly.

“True,” he said, taking a swig. “And yet one should never lose sight of the fact that those setbacks caused the deaths of innocent people. It is an unavoidable reality in trying to create change, but never one to be taken lightly.”

She stepped behind his chair, her hands slipping along his shoulders. He stiffened slightly but she halted him with her voice. “You’re tense. Let me help.” He relented, nodding, letting his eyes close as she began to massage his neck and shoulders, a light tingle of magic on her fingertips. He let out a sigh despite himself. “You truly care for them, don’t you?”

“The People need me,” he muttered. “Though they may not know it, I am the only one willing to act on their behalf. My kind have done far more harm to yours than good. I wish to see that corrected.” He drained the glass and she poured him another, returning to his shoulders as he brought the beverage back to his lips.

“You are a good man, Fen’Harel,” she said softly.

He let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Sometimes I fear you are alone in that assessment.”

She was silent for a moment, her fingers slowing in their ascent along the sides of his neck. “What would you do if you were found out?” she whispered. “If the other gods….” Her words trailed away then, but her meaning was clear.

“I do not wish to think on that now.”

“But if you… I mean, you’d have a plan, right? Some way to survive?”

“One would hope.”

The reality was, no matter how clever, no matter how manipulative he could be – he did not follow this course of action without great personal risk. If Elgar’nan ordered his death, he knew there were few who he would count upon to speak on his behalf. Falon’Din and Andruil would relish the opportunity to see him die – which probably meant that Dirthamen and the Huntress’s siblings would follow suit. Ghilan’nain would hold her tongue, despite her sympathies. She wouldn’t risk straying from Andruil. He would hope that Mythal would voice her objection and as the overseer of most judgments she would be within her right to counter her husband’s order. But even then, he did not know if he could count upon her friendship to force her hand if she found it more politically advantageous to stay silent.

It was a fate he always knew was possible. Still, he would like to think that even a man as callous as Elgar’nan would not throw away the life of one of the Creators so easily.

The press of her fingers mixed with the dizzying tingle of wine. His lids grew heavy, his limbs sinking into the chair as he allowed himself surrender to her touch. There was some small comfort to be found there. He had lived alone for quite some time and her presence provided him with a certain level of companionship that he would miss. Though he hated to admit it, his life of solitude left him yearning for some form of close contact. He was lonely and something as simple as the comforting touch of another was a welcomed respite.

Her hands shifted from his neck, fingertips tracing his jaw, her thumb sweeping slowly against the hollow of his cheek. He heard the rustle of fabric as she moved behind him, feeling her press a kiss against the side of his head where his hair was shaved to stubble. He opened his eyes lazily, turning to face her. There was something there; something in her expression he could not quite define beyond a vague and tender sadness. Her gaze darted to his lips and slowly, tentatively, she inched forward. He did not resist as she brought her mouth to his own. He knew he should put a stop to it and yet did not, silently blaming the haze of alcohol as he met her soft caress, his hand moving up to cup her cheek.

He pulled her closer, returning the gesture in kind as he deepened the kiss. This was stupid. Ill-advised. He held no true desire for her. He saw the notion of her being anything more than an ally as bordering on perverse. But her affection was warm and comforting and in that moment, it was exactly what he wanted to feel. He was surprised when she pulled away with a whimper, her eyes closed tightly as she pressed her forehead to his own, her lip pinched between her teeth. “I’m sorry, I … I can’t -” She stopped herself, wincing. He brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ear.

“You’ve done nothing you have to apologize for,” he whispered. “I would not take anything more than you wish to offer.” She cringed further, pulling away.

“It’s late,” she said, keeping her eyes down. “I should go to bed.”

He nodded, trying to breathe away his own drowsiness. “Probably for the best,” he murmured, rising from his seat as she anxiously turned toward the door. She paused there a moment, glancing back once more before quietly slipping into the hallway.


	13. Chapter 13

The first harvest was something truly worth savoring.

Dirthamen meticulously peeled back the skin of the fruit with his teeth, sucking the sweet juices that threatened to drip down his chin. He could feel the pleasurable tingle against his lips, magic imbued in the soft flesh as it slid against his tongue. His lips and fingertips were stained red from the well-enjoyed treat. He mused over the fact that his twin would probably be irritated by the mess, but he would not allow it to deter from his satisfaction.

He leaned back on his throne as the door to the chamber opened, Irenaste entering. “I hope you have brought me news, Priest.”

The elf bowed low. “The woman has returned, my Lord god.”

Dirthamen grinned, nodding. “Send her in.”

He enjoyed watching how the man scurried away. Even a High Priest, possessing powers far greater than many of his kind, still knew to fear the god he served. Dirthamen took another bite of the fruit, wiping away the slow trickling trail that dripped past his lips.

She kept her head down as the priest brought her forward. She moved quickly, throwing herself to her hands and knees at the foot of his throne. The Keeper of Secrets smiled, shooing the priest away with the brush of his hand. “Did the Wolf hear you leave?”

Black hair shifted, falling from her shoulders as she shook her head, keeping her face down. “No, my Lord god.”

“You are certain?”

Her voice wavered and she struggled to steady it. “He will sleep soundly tonight from what I put in his wine.”

He hummed, pleased. “Clever little thing. I hope you wore him out with a proper bedding, too. Poor man probably could use a good pity thrust with as uptight as he’s been lately.” He smirked, chuckling softly as he took another bite.

“He…” Her voice caught, her head shaking. “He did not want that from me.”

Dirthamen laughed. “A shame. I rather thought you’d be his type.” He took the last bite of the fruit, the pit clanging in the golden bowl that lay at his side as he discarded it. “Rise,” he commanded.

Nathra lifted herself to her feet, her gaze still downcast as she stood rigid, nervous, her breaths quick and shallow. “Come closer.” Her eyes darted up to meet his briefly. She was afraid - that much was plainly written on her features. It made his smile broaden as she nervously approached. Stained fingertips reached for her skin and she stiffened, too frightened to pull away and yet terrified of his touch. He skimmed the edge of her shoulder, picking at her sleeve. “Look at how he’s dressed you. I never would have guessed there was a slave underneath all of that. You clean up rather nicely, pet.” He traced the missing lines of her vallaslin, humming softly to himself. “He removed your brand, I take it?” She nodded. “We will have to fix that later, won’t we?” He could see her flinch, the memory of pain he was certain she did not want to live through again. Even so, she nodded. “Tell me, Nathra. What did you find?”

“He is doing as you suspected.” Her voice was halting as she spoke, quivering in her throat. “The slave revolts are not individualized events. He’s organizing them.”

He caressed her cheek, his brow lifting. “Sweet little thing, I already knew that. Please tell me you’ve found something more worthy of my time.” Her eyes darted nervously. “Consider what I did to your master to orchestrate this – and I rather liked Neldis,” he added with a shrug. “You, on the other hand, I am not nearly as fond of.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she answered quickly. He could see her eyes were growing wet.

“So? Do you have something better for me?”

“I… there was talk. The place where he’s hiding them. I heard a slave say something about a temple and the Vir’abelasan.”

Dirthamen’s eyes widened. “Really now?” He grinned, red-stained teeth shining. “You are certain that he is keeping them there?”

She nodded. “The slave made it clear. They are living there in hiding.”

She trembled as he laughed, a gleeful giggling that rumbled from his chest. “Oh, that is _far_ too good,” he hummed to himself, biting his lip, his mind working over the possibilities. “It would be so delightful to kill two birds with one stone, would it not?” He ran his hand along her neck, gripping her gently. “You have given me a great gift today, Nathra. The best news I’ve heard in quite some time. Falon’Din and I are ever so grateful.”

“It was nothing, my Lord,” she said, eyes welling with tears, her voice cracking. “He… the Wolf. Will…. Will he be hurt?”

Dirthamen’s eyes narrowed, his smile not dissipating as he raised the woman’s chin with his finger. She was moments from crying, lips pursed tightly, clearly trying to fight it. He gently brushed hair back from her face and she barely hid her cringing. “Oh sweet Nathra,” he murmured, sinking his fingers gently into the hair at the base of her skull, slowly tightening his grip. Her eyes widened, biting back a whimper as he angled her face to meet his own. “He may have taken your vallaslin, but do not forget who you belong to,” he said, his tone low and threatening.

She tried to shake her head, held still in his grip, her eyes searching his face. “I have not forgotten, my Lord god. I swear it.”

He loosened his fist, just enough to lessen the pain and he could hear the small breath of relief escape her. “You have done well, my pretty little serpent,” he said, slipping his hand once more to her chin, brushing his thumb against her lip as her eyes closed.

“Yes, my Lord,” she choked out. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“I am certain the All-Father would be _very_ keen to know what his wife has been getting up to with her favored pet.” He let go of her then, brushing her back with a wave of his hand. “Go then. Return to him and do it quietly. You would not want the Wolf to hear you.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she said, nodding quickly, backing away toward the doors.

“And Nathra?” She halted at the sound of his voice, turning. “Remember, I have many eyes in this city. Many ears listening in dark corners. If I find out you’ve warned him…”

“I won’t,” she said quickly. “I swear it.”

He smiled. “Of course you won’t, da’natha.” He reached down, plucking a new piece of fruit from the pile beside him, bringing it to his lips. “Run along now.” The Keeper of Secrets let out a self-satisfied hum as he sank his teeth into the flesh, enjoying the soft pop of skin breaking beneath the press of his bite as he watched the woman’s hurried steps.

He knew the Wolf always had a soft spot for a woman in peril. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now perhaps you'll see why I waited until now to translate Nathra's name. While I gave her the name well before I familiarized myself with Project Elvhen, I learned after I finished writing this that her name means "like a serpent". Rather fitting, I'd say. 
> 
> Also, Irenaste is intended to be the Highest One that you find in the Lost Temple of Dirthamen. His name literally means "very blessed". 
> 
> da natha - little serpent


	14. Chapter 14

Fen’Harel walked briskly up the steps of the Great Hall, head held high. There was another meeting to attend, another day of holding his tongue and presenting a false smile to the court of the Creators. Yet he felt confident today. Dirthamen’s ravens had finally been called to withdraw. Nathra had been moved safely to the Temple and he’d been able to resume his activities with a more direct touch. Geldauran’s war with Elgar’nan continued to serve as the distraction he needed and the city rang with little more than minor murmurings about the recent increase in restlessness among the slaves. _It is nothing,_ they told themselves. _It will pass. There are more that can replace those who have escaped_. 

Meanwhile, the number of freemen was growing.

He quickened his pace, drawing alongside Ghilan’nain as she neared the Great Hall. “Good morning, little halla.”

She turned toward the sound of his voice, smiling. “You sound in good spirits.”

“Perhaps you just bring that out of me,” he said, taking her arm and guiding her up the steps.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Flatterer.” He grinned. “Have you finally cleared time in your schedule to join me for dinner, or are you going to keep putting me off without explanation?”

“My apologies. I have been rather preoccupied as of late. Would tonight do, or is that too soon?”

She pursed her lips. “Andruil said I was to meet with her after we are finished here. She did not say why, so I am uncertain when I will be available again. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

He spotted the twins lingering in the corridor ahead, quietly sharing words. As they drew closer to their peers, Fen’Harel lowered Ghilan’nain’s arm from his touch, though not before planting a furtive kiss on her hand. “I look forward to it.”

Falon’Din wore a quiet look of amusement as he pulled away from Dirthamen, the Keeper of Secrets falling into step beside the Dread Wolf.

“Beautiful day, is it not?”

“I have no complaints,” Fen’Harel responded pleasantly.

“Seems a shame to waste it on another one of Elgar’nan’s meetings. What do you suppose he’s called this one for, hmmm?”

“I was wondering the same myself,” Ghilan’nain replied. “It did seem rather sudden.”

“Probably another lecture on the war effort,” Fen’Harel added dismissively.

Dirthamen hummed, nodding. “That would make sense. Those pesky friends of yours do seem to be causing an awful lot of trouble these days.”

“I’ve done what I can to keep the All-Father informed,” the Dread Wolf lied. “But those so-called _friends_ you speak of have been rather tight-lipped as of late. They may tolerate my presence among them, but they are aware that my loyalties lie here.”

The Keeper of Secrets smiled. “Certainly.”

They entered the main chamber, Fen’Harel stepping quickly toward his throne and sinking into it. Dirthamen and Ghilan’nain broke away to take their places within the circle. The atmosphere was much as it always was – the others sat, waiting with varying levels of patience for Elgar’nan to make his appearance. He looked about the room idly. Sylaise appeared mildly agitated, her eyes shifting between her brother and sister, lowering them as she caught the Dread Wolf looking in her direction.

Fen’Harel’s brow tightened.

He looked to Falon’Din who lounged comfortably in his seat, gazing out a nearby window. Though he did not look in his direction, Fen’Harel saw the quiet self-satisfied grin on his lips. Andruil was the only one who met his gaze directly – and when she did, she smiled broadly.

Something was wrong.

He shot Mythal a quizzical look. His brow shifted, eyes narrowing. She shook her head. Whatever this was, it went beyond her understanding.

He could feel his stomach grow tight, the hairs on the back of his neck lifting as the doors to the hall flew open. It was certainly not the first time that Elgar’nan had stormed into their meetings already frothing with rage, but this was different. His magic was sharp and biting, stinging inside Fen’Harel’s lungs as he breathed and the All-Father’s glare was directed squarely on him.

“Get up!” His snarl was halfway to a scream, the sound forcing the Wolf’s blood to chill in his veins. He barely had time to obey before Elgar’nan closed the distance between them, taking him hard by the throat. “What kind of fool do you take me for?!”

Mythal was on her feet. Fen’Harel’s eyes widened, balling his hands into fists, summoning and yet holding back. He could not strike out against the All-Father. Not yet. Not unless he had to. That was an act he had no hope of coming back from. The hand on his throat tightened and he could feel his pulse in his ears, glowing red eyes inches from his own. “Was this your plan all along, traitor? Undermine me here so those beasts of the Void can try to take my place?!”

He sucked in air as Elgar’nan released him, throwing him backwards violently. The Dread Wolf staggered as he fell, twisting to try and stop himself, his face catching the edge of his throne before his body hit the ground. His head rang from the impact, dazed as he felt the sharp sting of a cut on his brow. He dragged himself to his feet quickly as he heard a strangled laugh escape Andruil. He could taste blood on his lips, feel the trickle against the side of his nose as he tried in vain to wipe it away. The room was edged with tense anticipation as the others watched wordlessly. He could see Ghilan’nain from the corner of his eye, hands nervously gripping the arms of her throne, her face twisted in shock and fear. The others appeared far too calm with the exception of Mythal. They knew this was coming. Somehow they all knew.

Fen’Harel’s heart pounded in his chest, his eyes fixed on the God of Vengeance. “I don’t know what you’re-”

“Do not lie to me, Wolf!” he bellowed. “You are building an army behind my back! Did you truly think that you could defeat me with a pack of filth-borne slaves at your beck and call? Or were they intended as little more than a diversion to thin out my forces while Geldauran marched his way into Arlathan?”

Fen’Harel tried to still his thoughts as they raced past him. “This was never about Geldauran…”

“Lies!” The Dread Wolf stepped back, slipping past his throne, trying to keep distance between them as Elgar’nan stepped forward again.

“I don’t care about your war,” Fen’Harel bit back at him. “If I had wanted to aid Geldauran and his men, he would pose far more of a threat to you now. You know this. My only motivation was helping those you have chosen to enslave.”

“You would commit treason for that?” Elgar’nan screamed. “You would betray your own kind for those rahngiremen?”

“Husband,” Mythal began as she descended from her throne. Her tone was sweet and gentle as it always was when she soothed him from one of his rages. “I am certain this was simply an act of idle foolishness-”

“Do not speak to me, _traitor_!” Fen’Harel could see her expression harden as Elgar’nan glared at her, seething. “I know he did not act alone in this. You did more than play your part in helping him behind my back.”

For the first time in his life, Fen’Harel thought he saw fear in Mythal’s eyes.

“Your involvement in these riots can no longer be ignored,” Elgar’nan said, turning to face the Wolf once more. “You cannot build an army if you have no more slaves to fill your ranks.” Fen’Harel’s eyes widened as the All-Father turned to June. “Gather the ones that remain. I don’t care who they belong to. Conscript the able bodied ones. Send them to the front lines. They can be fodder for Geldauran’s men. As to the rest? Kill them.”

Fen’Harel felt his stomach twist sharply. “You can’t do this-”

Elgar’nan did not turn to acknowledge him. “Keep only enough children to allow breeding to start again in the coming years.” June nodded and rose to his feet.

“This is madness, Elgar’nan!” the Dread Wolf shouted. “They have done nothing to-”

“You wanted to end their enslavement?” The All-Father snapped, facing him once more. “Then have your wish. This is your doing alone, Wolf. You leave me no choice. They are a crop that you have poisoned with your insubordination and I will see it burned to the ground.”

 _This can’t be happening._ Even at his most crazed, he never thought Elgar’nan would take matters to such an extreme. “Punish me, but spare them. They are innocent!”

The words fell on deaf ears as the God of Vengeance shouted over him, turning to address Falon’Din. “Take your forces and storm Mythal’s temple to the south. We will crush this rebellion once and for all.”

The Wolf could taste bile in his throat, his head swimming with the roar of blood in his ears. Panicked visions – the temple, his people – they were trapped there, not knowing that their sanctuary had been discovered.

“You wouldn’t dare despoil my temple!” Mythal shouted, fists clenched at her sides, eyes wild with fury.

“I will not have the fruits of treason borne out in my own bed! If I have to have every one of your temples torn down stone by stone, I will see it done.” Elgar’nan thundered back at her as Falon’Din rose from his seat, lowering himself into a deep bow. His eyes met Fen’Harel’s as he slipped away from the world of the living, a cruel smirk spreading on his lips as he faded from view.

“Your pet has caused far more trouble than he is worth,” Elgar’nan continued, “and I am tired of hearing your excuses for him.” He called to Andruil, the Huntress sitting forward in her seat – alert and grinning as she had been since the fighting began. “Kill him.”

Fen’Harel’s chest tightened. Andruil’s lips peeled back, baring her teeth as she slipped her bow forward, nocking an arrow with a single motion. Fen’Harel’s shoulders tensed, wondering how quickly he could throw up a barrier.

“Stay that command!” Mythal bellowed. The Dread Wolf’s eyes never left Andruil’s. He could see the Huntress hesitate, arrow aimed and ready. “Elgar’nan, I hold the right to his judgment-”

“A right that you forfeited when you colluded with him!” he roared. “Andruil! End it.”

Fen’Harel’s throat clenched as her eyes narrowed. All it took was a flinch of her hand and he threw himself to the ground, dodging her first shot. He had to move quickly, his mind racing with possibilities. He could not run for the door. If he turned his back on her, she would kill him before he reached it – assuming Elgar’nan did not beat her to it. He cast a barrier, light glistening across his skin, uncertain if it would be enough. He knew the arrows she slipped against her bowstring were enchanted. She pulled back for her second shot, aiming once more and suddenly Fen’Harel was aware of nothing but a flurry of movement. Mythal lunged forward, shifting and twisting, a billowing gust of color and light that enveloped him and instantly he was moving, pulled and pushed and pressed away until he lost all sense of direction and space. He could hear Elgar’nan shouting, Andruil screaming in frustration, the sounds quickly fading into the distance.

His head was spinning by the time she released him and she gave him no time to orient himself before her hand was on his wrist in a vice-like grip. “Run,” she barked but the command was unnecessary as she dragged him down the passageway behind her. He scanned his surroundings and soon understood their path and her goal – the Great Hall’s Eluvian.

“How did he find out?!” Fen’Harel panted, struggling to form words while matching her pace.

“We have been betrayed,” Mythal snarled. “I know not by whom, but when I find them… they will suffer for it.”

He could hear the sound of movement, something crashing and thundering behind them, echoing off of the stone. They were being pursued.

Mythal had her hand extended, opening the Eluvian as soon as the mirror came into sight. “Go,” she shouted, throwing him forward with their shared momentum, releasing him. “Get the People out of there. I don’t care where you take them, just go.”

“You cannot stay here-”

“I am the only one who has any hope of stopping this madness,” she snapped. “If I can calm him-”

Her words were interrupted by a loud crashing burst, a strangled sound escaping her throat that tore into him, a hot pooling panic sinking into this veins. He shouted her name, rushing forward to catch her as she staggered, back stiffened, thrown forward from a sudden strike from behind. Her eyes were wide, shuddering as crimson veins of crackling energy flickered and twisted under her skin. The Dread Wolf looked up, focusing in on Elgar’nan, the All-Father red-faced and bellowing as he charged another spell, his hands ablaze. “She would defy me for you?!” he screamed. “You are _nothing_. _Less-than-nothing_. A thorn in my side I should have extracted years ago!”

Fen’Harel barely raised his hand in time as Elgar’nan threw another blast, energy sizzling against the wall the Wolf threw up to shield them, green light rippling under the force of the hit. He grit his teeth, trembling with exertion as he held back the wave of force, feeling the full weight of Elgar’nan’s power. He tried to shift Mythal, to shake her, to lift her, but she slumped heavily against him and his chest grew tight, fearing the worst. “What have you done to her?” he shouted as the wave dissipated.

“Her fate was your doing. You ruin everything you touch, Wolf,” Elgar’nan sneered. “This will never change.”

Fen’Harel could see the flicker at the All-Father’s fingertips, smell the sharp scent of his magic and he knew he was summoning again. His first barrier had only barely held together – he had little hope of being so lucky the second time. Fen’Harel looped his arms tightly around Mythal and threw himself backwards with all the strength he had. Elgar’nan’s voice rumbled through him, a vengeful thundering roar as he fell through the Eluvian, dragging the Great Protector with him. He was enveloped in a tingling, velvety coolness and suddenly all sound ceased as his back hit the ground, forcing the air from his lungs. He lifted his hand, his body half-pinned beneath Mythal’s limp form as he ripped the mirror closed with a sharp tug. As soon as the surface was sealed, he slammed his heel as hard as he could into the glass, hearing the shattering crunch beneath his foot. It was a small break, but it was enough. It would keep Elgar’nan and the others from entering the midrealm through that mirror for the time being. It would buy him a few moments.

He was trembling, shaking as he rolled, guiding her onto her back, quickly lifting her head. “Mythal?” Each limb lay lifeless, her face hollowed and expressionless, slackened muscle and open, unfocused eyes. _This isn’t impossible. He would never do this. Elgar’nan never would have…_ “Mythal!” Fen’Harel pressed his hands to her cheeks, his eyes closing, trying to still himself and focus. He needed to see into her, see past the body and into soul, the essence, the spark, the core that lay within each of them. It had to persist. It had to endure. Even with all his power, Fen’Harel could not believe that Elgar’nan could destroy her entirely with a single blow.

He could feel it – a small, lingering, wilting pulse, nearly blinded by the rush of his own relief as he nourished it, feeding it with his magic, drawing it from her as light pooled and shifted and pulled from her skin. He would not leave her trapped inside a broken body. She needed a safe haven and he would give her one. He opened his eyes, shuddering as what remained of her radiance entered him, blinking back the blackened tendrils of smoke that emanated from his skin. His ears were ringing, his head feeling full, heavy, darkened but he shook away the sensation.

He had to focus.

He was running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rahngiremen - owned things, chattel (project elvhen)


	15. Chapter 15

The voice rang through his head, all-consuming and impossible to ignore over the sound of his breaths, his heart, the pounding of his feet rattling up through his body as he pushed himself forward. He dodged past the trees, flying past mirrors as he scrambled to reach the one leading to her temple.

_Faster, Fen’Harel._

_I am going as fast as I can, Mythal,_ he thought back silently. Her presence felt like a sharp sting, a buzzing as he sensed each thought. He could see an image in his mind. The Wolf. She wanted him to shift form. He could move faster if he changed. Yet he knew that he was being pursued. He had a better chance of defending himself if he was in his natural state – particularly if Andruil caught him. Casting was difficult as the Wolf. Harder to direct. Harder to control. He dismissed the thought and she understood without explanation. Their minds, though separate, were connected, the lines between them blurred.

_He will pay for this._

“Not now,” he said aloud, hissing through clenched teeth as his lungs began to burn. He could not let himself get distracted by her calls for vengeance, even as visions of tearing Elgar’nan to pieces floated in his periphery. He had to focus on his people. He had to focus on getting them out of her temple.

 _Where will you take them?_ He hesitated, cycling over possibilities and he could feel her guiding his thoughts, sifting through them. They settled. Agreement. The mountains to the south. A holy place. A safe haven. It was long-abandoned, but the magic there was strong. It would hold. They would be protected.

He opened the mirror to her temple without slowing his stride, the glowing surface barely having a chance to shift to his will before he threw himself against it, skidding to a stop to avoid the waters of the Vir’Abelasan. The inner sanctum had not been penetrated by Falon’Din’s forces, yet he could hear fighting echoing through the surrounding complex. He rushed forward, summoning a pathway down into the courtyard beyond.

He prayed that he wasn’t too late, knowing full-well that there was no divine force that would answer his plea.

* * *

 

It had been far worse than he could have imagined.

Fen’Harel leaned back against the wall beside the sealed mirror, allowing himself to slump to the ground. It was a moment of weakness that he did not care if his people saw, closing his eyes, his brow furrowed as he sank his head down into his hands. The sharp metallic scent of blood was inescapable, soaked into his robes. It was blood that was spent because of him. Blood from people he had tried to save. Mythal’s voice still rang through his skull, her screaming rage assaulting his mind, making his body ache from the strain. He could not blame her for her anguish. Not with what she had seen through his eyes.

Her temple had been caught completely unprepared. Chambers bloodied and littered with dead, struck down by archers or charred from blasts of energy. Both of their people were counted among them – his freemen alongside her priests and supplicants, her sentinels who gave their lives in defense of her honor. All had been trapped in equal measure, struck down without mercy. Her guards did their part to hold back the God of Death’s forces, keeping them from breaching the temple in full. Some of the innocent had armed themselves – many of his men and women among them – but it did little to stem the death toll. Far too many had died today. Far too many killed because of him.

 _Their blood is not on your hands, ma fen._ Her thoughts forced their way into his own. _The blame belongs with Elgar’nan, with Falon’Din. The gods of Elvhenan will pay for what they have done._

Tarasyl’an Te’las echoed with the sounds of its new inhabitants. The survivors now lingered, aimless and shifting through the circular room that housed the mirror, spilling out into the hall beyond. Many were injured. Many were mourning. Their numbers had thinned and there were faces missing. Too many faces. Some he had names to, others he did not. People who had entrusted him with their lives and he could not help but feel like he had failed them.

_Yet they still live, be it only by your grace._

The words did not serve as a comfort.

He stirred when he felt something touch his shoulder, lifting his head. The girl pulled her hand away meekly, lowering her gaze, nervous to speak.

“Sorry to disturb you, my Lord.” Her voice wavered as she spoke, her eyes swollen and glassy from tears. She was an adolescent, barely more than a child. “But I…. I promised a friend…” Her words left her, choked in her throat as she held out her other hand, her fist closed tightly around something he could not immediately identify. Oblong and irregularly shaped, dark and wrapped in leather cording. “He… he wanted you to have this.”

Fen’Harel’s brow lowered as he took it from her, feeling the familiar ridges of bone beneath his fingertips. A jawbone bound with cording. He had a vague memory, a familiarity as he tried to search his thoughts. Someone had worn this. A boy. The one who he’d spoken to about the mirror. He tried to picture his face and yet could not, all trace of him gone from his thoughts except that he had been there, that they had spoken, that he’d worn the odd object as a totem. Had he known his name? He was certain he had, once.

Now, he could no longer remember.

“He…” Fen’Harel paused, frowning, starting again. “I take it he was killed at the temple?”

She nodded, sniffling, the glassy film over her eyes starting to well at the corners. “He wanted to fight.”

“I see.” He stared down at the object a moment longer, masking his thoughts behind a calm face. “Thank you,” he murmured. “His sacrifice will be remembered.”

_Even if I can’t remember his name._

_Do not blame yourself._

_How can I not?_

The girl’s smile was grateful and it pained him to hear her thanking him in return. He could not help but think of the countless others, those who had been slaughtered throughout the city, throughout the empire. Elgar’nan had ordered their deaths as well. Word would have spread, agents sent to do his bidding reaching all corners of Elvhenan within moments because of the Eluvians. How many more had died? How many more lives had been lost that would be forgotten, slipping through the fingers of history as if they had never existed, as if they had never mattered? How many had he left enslaved for the sake of keeping his activities outside of the All-Father’s notice? How many had he left behind to be killed due to little more than that tyrant’s rage?

_You did what you could, old friend._

_It wasn’t enough,_ he thought in response. _The fact that so many innocents have died and I was powerless to stop it is proof enough._

_My husband will pay for this. I will have my retribution._

Elgar’nan was clearly a madman – far worse than Fen’Harel had ever suspected. He could not be reasoned with. He saw that now. He was a megalomaniac who would never stop. This was the All-Father’s fault – his, and the other Creators. Again and again, they sat idly by and did nothing, perpetuating the same system of abuse. He had hoped once that he could convince them – that if he created the conditions in which freedom was inevitable that they would see how wrong they had been. But he had no hope of that now. He had been wrong to believe they could be redeemed. They had to be stopped.

Mythal did not disagree.

Thoughts shifted. The inkling of a plan formed. He felt her there inside his mind, sifting and inspecting, following the path his ideas were taking him.

_A drastic measure, ma fen._

_There is no other path to take, Mythal. This has to end._

He knew he was right. He knew that ending the enslavement of the elves was worth the sacrifice. He could not give up now.

The People still needed him.

He did what he could for those around him. Healed the injured. Tried to soothe shaken nerves, to explain to them what happened. He gathered his various agents who had survived the slaughter and set them to getting the group organized and settled for the evening. They needed to rest. The work of creating some sort of proper settlement for them here would begin in the morning.

He took a moment to himself, walking through the temple, seeking some sense of solitude. Tarasyl’an Te’las lay before him, isolated and protected. The magic here would keep the others from tracking his people; if not indefinitely, then for a time. The main hall felt empty, long abandoned and yet still alive, humming with energy. It was a place the People had once known well, lost and found again and again throughout the expanse of time. It would serve his needs for now.

He walked down the long expanse until he reached the open air, staring out over the horizon. Every part of him ached. He had overexerted himself, stretched his endurance and his magic to its limits and now that he no longer had his adrenaline to fuel him he felt empty.

_You should release me, Fen’Harel._

He shook his head reflexively. _You are weak. A fragment of your whole self at most. I can carry you until we find a permanent host._

_I am not as delicate as you presume, Wolf. You know you cannot carry me indefinitely. I would not have you take that risk._

He tried to soothe away the ache in his brow with the base of his palm, letting out a slow breath. _I will survive._

_As will I. Trust that I will not allow myself to perish before my vengeance can be enacted. Let that be my fuel._

He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching. _Is this truly what you wish?_

_It is, old friend._

He took an unsteady breath, eyes beginning to sting as he readied himself. Even as she lived, the thought of releasing her felt like losing a part of himself. She was one of the only people who had ever cared for him; one of the few who had ever seen him for who he was and who he could be. He felt her move through these thoughts as well, felt the quieted pain of her sympathy.

_I understand, da’fen. But you cannot keep me._

He nodded. Then, he let her go. He allowed her to separate, to pull away, feeling her absence forming like a hollow pit in his chest. He blinked as the light left him, a trailing vapor of shifting movement, barely taking form as it parted from his body and then dissipated, taken by the chilled winds of the mountainside.

He lowered his head once more, eyes closing, his shoulders sinking lower. _Forgive me, my friend,_ he thought, knowing she was no longer there to hear him. _I promise I will never again see you punished for my failure._


	16. Chapter 16

“Little halla.”

Ghilan’nain startled at the sound of his whisper, gasping as she turned. “Fen’Harel?” Her eyes darted reflexively as she blindly reached forward. Her hand brushed against his chest and soon she gripped his shoulders, hands sliding up to his face. He could see the strain on her features, the stress of the passing days wearing heavily around her eyes, washed away only briefly by her relief. “You’re alive.”

“That I am.”

“I was certain Andruil would have killed you by now,” she said, her throat tightening around the words.

He smiled softly, placing one of his hands over her own. “I promised you I would not get myself killed, did I not?”

She let out a weak laugh, halfway caught by a sob, shaking her head. “Why did you come here?”

“Because you are the only friend I have left.”

She lowered her chin, letting out a shaking sigh. “You didn’t… I know you didn’t do it, we all saw her save you, but Elgar’nan…” Her voice was leaving her, quivering as Fen’Harel narrowed his eyes. “He’s saying you killed Mythal.”

He took a deep breath, trying to relax the sudden sickening tension in his body. It had been nearly a month since Mythal’s murder. A month of hiding while Elvhenan grieved. Fen’Harel knew that word had spread of her death. He still had agents who were living among the merchant class of Arlathan who now served as his eyes and ears. They’d informed him of the rumors when they first emerged. Her words only confirmed the true source of the lie.

It mattered little now. Not with what was to come.

“You know I would never do that,” he whispered. She nodded, her voice pinched in a whimper.

“I know,” she said. “They’re saying such terrible things about you, falon. I can’t convince anyone that they’re not true – not when the All-Father…”

“Do not worry about that, little halla,” he murmured softly, tucking strands of her hair behind her ear. “There is something else you can do for me.” She lifted her head, frowning curiously. “I need you to go to Elgar’nan. Tell him I wish to present myself in supplication. I wish to beg for his forgiveness.”

She let out a shaky breath. “How am I to let you know if he accepts your audience?”

“I will come back to you in three days’ time,” he said. “Can you have my answer by then?”

She nodded. “I tried to come and see you,” she said haltingly. “Everyone’s been looking for you-”

“I am well aware, da’len,” he said, trailing his thumb along the line of her ear. “I am more than capable of avoiding detection when I wish to hide.”

Her hands tightened against his chest, clutching at his robes. “Fen’Harel… he ordered your death. I want you to seek forgiveness but… what if it’s too late for that? What if he tries to finish what he started?”

“Do not worry about me.”

“When I heard his command… when Andruil fired at you…” She shook her head, her voice strained. “If I could have stopped them, I would have. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know.” His lips pursed, his jaw clenching. What he wanted to say was foolish. It was a risk he should not take. He could not let anyone know of his plans. Not now. Not with what was coming. But he knew he could not live with himself if he did not try. “Ghilan’nain,” he began, gently taking hold of her wrists, “would you stand by my side in this? Would you come with me, if I asked you to?”

Hers was guilt by association. She did not deserve the punishment that awaited the others. Her crime was being too frightened to fight back, allowing herself to be blinded by her misguided loyalty.

She considered it, a deep crease forming across her brow. “My place is with Andruil, ma fen,” she whispered, her voice wavering as she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I wish I did not have to choose sides, but-”

“Stop,” he said sadly. “You do not need to explain yourself to me. I only wish that…” He paused before continuing, his voice measured and calm to cover the sinking feeling in his gut. He lifted her chin with his fingers delicately. “I hope for your safety. No matter what comes, you will always be my little halla.”

Her lips spread into a small smile and she leaned forward, her cheek pressed to his chest as she wrapped her arms around him. He returned the embrace, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of her head.

He did not want to think of what the future held for her. He could not let himself dwell on that now.


	17. Chapter 17

There was a very good chance that he would simply kill him.

Fen’Harel lowered himself to one knee, bowing his head low as the breath stilled in his lungs. The All-Father sat on his throne in the empty hall, dressed in mourning clothes. The Dread Wolf knew to expect this and even so the sight caused his skin to crawl. He would dare pretend to show respect for the dead when he was the one to take her life? Fen’Harel held his tongue. He was here to play the Game – just as Mythal had always instructed.

“Speak, Wolf,” Elgar’nan growled, simmering in his anger. “Give me one reason why I should spare your life.”

“I do not expect your mercy without repayment, my Lord,” he said smoothly, lifting his head to face him. “I offer a trade. My life for the key to defeating Geldauran and the others of the Void.”

Elgar’nan was never a man capable of hiding his emotions and the Dread Wolf could see the look of intrigue in his eyes. Still, he shook his head. “And why should I believe that you have such a key?”

“Do you truly believe I walk amongst them out of friendship, my Lord god?” Fen’Harel kept his tone level as he spoke. “The Others are not my kin. They are our enemy, as they have been since the very beginning. I have gained their trust over the centuries. Slowly, they have let me know of their secrets, their vulnerabilities. For ages now, Geldauran has struggled to try and obtain a certain blade – a weapon hidden away in the Heavens. It has the power to strike them down once and for all.”

“Is that so?”

Fen’Harel knew he had him as he nodded. “Geldauran has never been able to find it. I have.”

The All-Father studied him, leaning back in his throne, his fingers tented as he considered the Wolf’s story. “Go on then,” he said, “tell me where this blade is hidden.”

Fen’Harel resisted the urge to grin. Did the All-Father think he was clever? That the Dread Wolf would simply tell him its location so he could be disposed of? He bowed his head respectfully. “I found it locked behind a barrier – powerful magic that keep it hidden from sight and far from touch. However, if all of the Creators were to assemble in its location, if we all would channel our power into a single orb to focus the energy for a singular purpose, I believe I should be able to break through the barrier. You would have your ultimate weapon. You could bring the Others to heel and end this war once and for all. Prove to them that they were fools to stand against you. All that I require is your cooperation. Assemble with the others upon the next full moon and I will guide you to its location. Do this, and I will secure you your prize.”

He allowed the words to settle between them, patiently awaiting Elgar’nan’s response. The All-Father frowned, his chin lifting. “Why would you offer me so much power when I am your enemy?”

“I no longer wish to be your enemy, my Lord,” Fen’Harel said respectfully. “I have seen what my foolishness has cost you – what it has cost all of us. I wish in some small way to make it up to you and to the others of our kind.” He bowed once more to emphasize his words. “This is merely a small token of my great penance.”

Elgar’nan remained silent for a time and Fen’Harel waited patiently, his head lowered. If he knew the God of Vengeance, he would not pass up the chance to rid himself of the Others. His pride alone would demand that he claim this weapon for himself, if it was something that Geldauran truly feared.

“I accept,” Elgar’nan said simply. “Rise.”

Fen’Harel lifted himself to his feet, bowing once more at the waist. “I will begin the preparations immediately, my Lord.”

* * *

 

The hall was a long and narrow passageway carved deep into the stone, the surface of which was polished and smoothed until the red veins held within glowed. They thrummed and pulsed like blood coursing through the walls. It was not hard to understand why there were those who believed the Void was a living entity.

Geldauran sat back on his throne, his lips spreading into a broad smile as Fen’Harel approached. He was flanked by his generals, their seats set lower to the ground than his own, three thrones carved into the side of what was once a mountainous slope. Daern’thal and Anaris did not greet him quite so warmly as their leader called out to him.

“Such a formal affair, Fen’Harel?” he said, a note of amusement in his voice. “Should we be honored to have a god addressing our court?”

A ripple of bitter laughter went through the gathered crowd, faces set back into the shadows that lined the hall. He held his face steady even as the hairs on his neck rose. The Others may have seen him as their kin, but not all welcomed him with open arms. Many of them had been corrupted by their time in the Void, their minds warped to the point of madness. It made them unpredictable – and it made a situation like this quite tenuous if he misread the qualities of their friendship.

“He is no god anymore,” Anaris hissed, his fingers strumming against the arm of his throne. “Didn’t you know? They don’t allow traitors to call themselves gods.”

Fen’Harel bristled at the word, but said nothing. “We do so appreciate watching what your betrayal has done to Arlathan, Wolf,” Daern’thal added with a smirk. “We could practically smell the burning slave quarters from here.”

There was another hum of tittering laughter. Fen’Harel swallowed the taste of bile in his throat. “Pleased to see my efforts have been well-received,” he said calmly.

“Tell us, how did it feel to kill the wife of the All-Father?”

He bit down on his tongue, stopping his anger, releasing his tension as his eyes narrowed. “Is that what they have been saying?” He asked coolly, forcing a smile.

“News travels quickly,” Anaris added.

“I cannot take credit for it, my friends,” Fen’Harel said, fighting the urge to say more. “Elgar’nan himself did the deed.”

There was another wave of murmurings. Geldauran’s head tilted, intrigued. “Is that so?”

“Elgar’nan is a madman,” he said firmly. “He has truly deluded himself with his belief that he is a god and now has lost all touch with reality. I could look past his misdeeds before, but no longer. I want to see him brought down to his knees. I want to see him suffer. _I want him dead_.”

The atmosphere in the room stirred into life. He knew he would gain their approval with such talk. Geldauran smiled, his brow arched. “Glad to see you’ve finally changed your tune. Took you a few centuries.”

“Better late than never, old friend,” Fen’Harel quipped and the man laughed.

“And how do you propose we see to the demise of our dear Lord Elgar’nan?”

“Elgar’nan has spent many ages searching for a weapon – an ancient blade, something that could strike him down as easily as one would pluck a leaf from a branch. He has never been able to find it.” Fen’Harel lowered his chin, spreading his lips into a sadistic smirk. “I have.”

He had them. He could hear it in their voices, see it in their eyes, feel it in the way the energy of the room shifted. Each ear was attentive as he told them of the blade hidden deep inside the abyss, protected behind a barrier so great that it would require all of them to gather at its location to combine their forces. Each head nodded in agreement as he told them how he would meet with them there at the next full moon and use his orb to channel their power together. He would break the barrier, he promised. The weapon would then be theirs. They would be unstoppable. Elgar’nan would pay and all of Elvhenan would quake at their feet.

They were all-too eager to agree. 


	18. Chapter 18

There was no hesitation, no pause in Andruil’s steps as she charged into the Great Hall. Fen’Harel barely had the chance to glance up before she was on him. She shoved him roughly into his throne with the full weight of her body, fingers raking through his hair, jerking his head back. She thrust her knee sharply between his legs, bracing it on the edge of his seat. “How dare you even show your face in here again?” she growled. He could hear the others murmuring. They were there, lingering, watching as they all waited for the All-Father’s arrival. This was the Dread Wolf’s return to the court of the Creators, the first meeting he was to attend since his absolution. He knew to expect their abuse and scorn. He was determined not to respond to it.

“Andruil-”

“Stay out of this,” the Huntress snapped. Ghilan’nain fell silent, her gaze lowering.

Fen’Harel said nothing, taking in a hissing breath as she tugged fiercely on his scalp. “I don’t even care that Elgar’nan forgave you,” she continued. “I will savor tormenting you for the rest of your pitiful life for what you’ve done.”

Fen’Harel looked up at her, keeping his face calm, unfeeling, unmoved. “I expected as much,” he said simply.

Andruil’s head tilted, the hint of a grin on her lips. “What? No witty retort? No sly mockery? Since when do you not fight back?” He didn’t answer her, even as his skin began to crawl. She slipped a dagger from the strap along her thigh, quickly pressing the blade to his scalp, her fist tightening around his hair. He inhaled sharply but did not drop his gaze, his jaw clenching. “I could shear you like a sheep and you wouldn’t even try to stop me, would you?”

The twins chuckled. Fen’Harel bit into his tongue before replying. “Are you quite finished?” he asked coolly.

Her smile broadened and she laughed, shaking her head. “You are rather neutered now, aren’t you Wolf?” He flinched as she tapped the broad side of her blade against his inner thigh, his eyes narrowing. Her lips parted, somewhere between a snarl and a smirk as she leaned forward, her face a breath away from his own. “Maybe sometime I’ll check and see just how neutered you are,” she hissed, pressing her knee firmly between his legs, lightly tracing the tip of her dagger against his throat. “Would you try to stop me then? Tell me, how humiliated would you be if I were to use you like one of the slaves you love so much?” He ground his teeth together, glaring, his resolve slipping as the doors opened once more, Elgar’nan sweeping into the room. The Huntress’s eyes darted to him briefly before fixing on the Dread Wolf once more. “Be seeing you,” she purred before pulling away, retreating to her throne.

He took a slow breath, focusing on the task at hand. He could not allow her to get under his skin. As the assembly progressed, Fen’Harel sat stoically upon his throne, keeping his gaze low. Falon’Din wore an infuriating smirk, leaning over from time to time to murmur to his twin who grinned with such genuine satisfaction that it made the Dread Wolf seethe. He did not let it show, even when the meeting was derailed by his peers’ derision and scorn, heaping their abuses upon him. He did not engage them. He would not grant them the satisfaction of his anger as it chewed through him, eating him from the inside-out. He was certain of his course and he could not betray himself now. He needed them to see a man defeated and so he remained withdrawn, silent, turning his face into a hardened mask that he could hide his rage behind.

His eyes kept returning to the empty throne that sat beside the All-Father, feeling Mythal’s absence like a weight in his chest. He drowned out their words with thoughts of her, wondering how long she could survive in that form, listless and lacking flesh. If anything, Mythal was resourceful. He wanted to believe that she would find a way, no matter how long it took. He knew the futility of prayer, but if there were any who could hear him and intervene, he would plead for her safety. She had put herself at risk for his sake more than that of the People. He would never let himself forget that.

Elgar’nan demanded an audience with him after he dismissed the others. Fen’Harel obeyed without objection, patiently answering his inquiries. He wanted to go over the details of their plan once more – when and where they would meet, how Fen’Harel would guide them to the weapon they sought. His questions did nothing but illustrate his greed and his eagerness to have the power to destroy the Others. It was clear that the All-Father intended to dispose of the Dread Wolf once he was no longer useful, even though he never said it explicitly. When he’d destroyed Geldauran and his kin, he would have no more need of the Wolf who roamed between both clans. He likely thought he was being so clever, that Fen’Harel would not see his intended duplicity – but the God of Vengeance was never the master of manipulation that his wife had been. She had been a delicate blade where he had always been a blunt hammer.

He was relieved when Elgar’nan permitted him to go. He wanted nothing more than to return to his home and rest. He had been sacrificing sleep for days now in favor of making the final preparations necessary. It would be worth it, in the end. He reassured himself that afterward, he would be getting more than enough sleep to make up for the difference.

He made his way down the corridor, retracing the final steps Mythal ever took.

“Did she die?”

Fen’Harel turned toward the sound of Dirthamen’s voice. He found the god alone, leaning against the wall. It was obvious he had been waiting there for him. “Not Mythal, of course,” he continued, rising from his resting place. “That would be a rather stupid question, would it not? I’m more than aware of your role in her death.” The Dread Wolf said nothing, simply staring at him as the Keeper of Secrets drew near, a soft smile on his lips. “You do know that Elgar’nan has said that you killed her, don’t you? I know better, of course. It is in my nature to know such things. Though I must say – the rumor is doing some rather interesting things for your reputation. You are truly living up to your name now, aren’t you harellan?”

He bristled at the word though his face showed little more than a subtle shift of his brow. Dirthamen shrugged, casually inspecting his nails. “That temple was quite a mess by the time Falon’Din finished with it. True, it still stands. Mythal’s sentinels eventually sealed the gates – but I doubt there were any civilians left standing. They must have had quite a pile of bodies to deal with. The smell alone would have-”

“Do you intend on reaching a point anytime soon?” Fen’Harel snapped.

Dirthamen smiled, pleased to get a reaction out of him. “You may have the others fooled, but I know my twin couldn’t have possibly slain the entirety of the slaves you had hidden away. They don’t fully comprehend the scope of your endeavors – not the way I do. You managed to steal away with some of them, am I right? Stashed them somewhere new?”

Fen’Harel said nothing, his face steady as he stared at him.

Dirthamen’s laugh was soft and pleasant. “Now, don’t be like that. I don’t expect you to tell me where they are. In truth – I have little interest. I’ve already gotten what I wanted from you, Fen’Harel. I have no need to take more. But I have to know, just to sate my curiosity – did she die?”

The Dread Wolf gauged him for a moment before frowning. “Who?” he asked hesitantly.

“Nathra.”

He could see her once more, as he had in the temple. A broken body. Bloodied. Skin marred with snaking trails of lightning burned into her flesh. He did not see the blow that killed her, only the aftermath. She was one more person he wasn’t able to save. One more body he had to leave behind as he focused on those living who still depended on him.

The Dread Wolf shook his head. “I don’t know who-”

“Oh come now, Fen’Harel. You must remember,” he said with a grin. “She lived in your home for weeks. Cooked your food. Drugged your wine…” The Wolf’s eyes narrowed. “She was under specific instructions to seduce you. I thought catering to some of your more basic urges would help lower your guard, but apparently that was entirely unnecessary. Good thing, as she failed spectacularly in that regard,” he added with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Tell me, where you just not feeling up to the task, or have I misjudged your tastes? I seem to recall you having a certain penchant for green eyes. Or was it blue?” He paused for a moment, scrunching up his nose as he gazed toward the ceiling, his finger tapping his chin. “See – now you have me second-guessing myself.” Fen’Harel stared at him, horrified. “Admittedly, I debated myself on choice of skin color. Your past dalliances have shown quite a variety in that regard- it made it rather difficult to pin down. Maybe someone more ebon-hued would have been to your liking? You have always been so fond of our sweet halla. Perhaps the similarity would have stirred something for you?”

His lips twitched, the bridge of his nose tightly creased as he glared, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The Keeper of Secrets smiled brightly. “Poor Fen’Harel. So worried about my eyes on the outside that you never stopped to question just what you were protecting. Did the thought _honestly_ never cross your mind? Not even once? And what would you have done if you discovered that I all-but gift wrapped her for you? Killed her?” He stepped closer, looking intently into the Dread Wolf’s face, his voice lowering. “Would you have been able to wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze the life out of her for betraying you?”

Dirthamen paused, studying his features before giving a small shake of his head. “No,” he murmured. “You wouldn’t, would you? Not that pretty little thing. You love her kind too much. It’s funny, really. You wear it like a badge of honor. You can’t even see how weak it makes you. I destroyed you _and_ Mythal simply by sending you something you felt compelled to save. Mythal was a surprise, I will admit. You were my target, yet you handed her to me on a platter. A rather nice gift, Dread Wolf. Her death was unexpected – but I’m not exactly losing any sleep over it either.”

Fen’Harel breathed heavily, his jaw clenched and yet he remained silent.

“I handpicked Nathra for you. Butchered her owner myself. Told her I would make her suffer to the point where death would be a _blessing_ – unless, of course, she did precisely what I asked of her. And _oh_ ,” he added softly, “how conflicted the poor thing looked. You should have seen how her eyes watered when she told me about the temple – when she asked if you were going to be hurt. She was rather fond of you, Wolf. It was as plain as the unmarked skin of her face.”

Fen’Harel swallowed hard, the taste of bile in his throat as Dirthamen drew close once more. “Still, she did as she was told. Do you know why?” He lowered his voice, angling his chin up until his face nearly met his own. “Fear,” he whispered. He lingered a moment, taking measure of his reaction. “Consider this a gift,” he murmured, “a lesson from me to you; you cannot trust the People. Even if they love you, they will _always_ fear you. It is inevitable. It is a constant as long as they know what you truly are – because you will _always_ be so much bigger. So much more powerful. You want to cast off the role of a god, pretend that you are something you are not? Be my guest, Fen’Harel, but it doesn’t change anything. They will never be our equals and you are nothing but a fool if you think otherwise. _They_ recognize it. That’s why they worship us. It’s why they know to fear us. In the end, you can either use that fear, as I have - or you will find yourself the victim of it.”

He withdrew a step, clapping a comforting hand onto the Dread Wolf’s shoulder. “Hopefully you’ve learned your lesson this time.” It took everything within him not to rip the man’s arm off right there, to shift form and sink his teeth into him as Dirthamen grinned, his face melting once more into a mockery of pleasantry. “The great irony is that I am the one teaching you this. One would assume the Bringer of Nightmares would know better already.”


	19. Chapter 19

Fen’Harel wore a heavy expression as he stepped through the Eluvian. A few of his generals rose to their feet quickly, bowing as he closed the mirror behind him.

“Is it done, my Lord?” The one named Drua asked.

He was silent for a moment, staring down at the orb in his hands. He could hear the sounds of life echoing off the walls of Tarasyl’an Te’las. The main hall was ringing with sound, muffled and distant. There was laughter. Conversation. The sounds of normal living that these elves had purchased with their sacrifices. That was what he was fighting for. He wanted to give them a world in which they could live in peace from his kind.

“Everything is in place,” he said quietly. “Give me the room. The work I must do now needs privacy.”

“Lock them in there and throw away the key,” Felassan said, smirking. “A dark hole seems too good for them, to be quite honest.”

“Their suffering is not what this is about,” Fen’Harel snapped. The elf looked surprised but simply shrugged.

“Whatever you say, my Lord.”

Fen’Harel looked down once more, taking a deep breath as the others filed out of the room, closing the door behind them. He lowered himself to the floor, legs crossed, his back to the wall. He cradled the orb in his lap, fingertips tracing the familiar grooves. His mind felt distant as he tried to separate himself from the events of that night. The Eluvians had been carefully placed. The traps baited and set. They had gone willingly, though their destination was unknown to them. They thought he was leading them to their respective weapons and they found their prisons instead. Pocket dimensions. Places outside of places, existing only to house them. He sealed the mirrors behind them, each in turn, but he knew it would not hold indefinitely. It might take them years, but they would find a way to break them down eventually.

He closed his eyes, his hand on the orb, stirring the magic inside it, syncing its pulse with his own.

“You are certain this is the path you desire?”

He did not open his eyes, yet he was thankful nonetheless for her presence. “There is no other path now, Wisdom,” he said quietly. “The People will never be free as long as tyrants calling themselves gods roam the land.”

“And yet you will remain.”

He opened his eyes slowly, keeping his gaze down. “No,” he whispered softly. “I will not.” He glanced up into her face as she knelt beside him. “Will you miss it? Moving in the physical plane?”

“I have little interest in it. The Fade is more than a sufficient home.” He closed his eyes again as she reached forward, touching his cheek, allowing himself to press against the sensation on his skin. “Do not mourn for the spirits, Dread Wolf. We will remain. We will endure.”

He nodded slowly, turning from her touch, cupping the orb with both hands.

“It is time,” he muttered.

“Then I will see you on the other side,” she said calmly.

The orb glowed, green light sinking into his skin as he breathed deeply, weaving together the barrier. The world twisted. Shifting. Resisting. The fabric of reality pulled against him but he pushed forward. His head began to ache, a ringing, disorienting throbing burrowing deep into his skull, sharply tracing the length of his spine. His chest constricted, limbs trembling. He tightened his grip on the orb, eyes still closed. He pressed on. He had to. He created a barrier larger than any he had before, larger than any had ever witnessed. A wall they could never pass through. A way to keep them trapped forever. He would seal off their Eluvians, both in the heavens and the abyss. He would negate any possibility that the Creators or the Others could slip back through. The world itself would be blocked from them. They would be left there, unable to reach out, capable of nothing more than surrendering to the emptiness that surrounded them. His mouth soured as the flavor of iron overwhelmed his tongue, his teeth clenching as he strained against the energy that coursed through him. He had to focus on the orb. He had to channel everything he had into this single act.

The world needed to be safe from his kind.

He could feel a bursting, a tearing, a sudden rushing wave that erupted from the orb and all of his senses left him. He could see nothing but a blinding green light- hear nothing but the absence of all sound, buzzing and hollow and empty. As quickly as it appeared, it disappeared, his head ringing in the aftermath.

Wisdom was gone.

The orb lay dormant in his lap and slowly he peeled his fingers away. He did not need to question whether or not the spell had been a success. He could smell the change in the air, feel the absence on his skin.

This is what the world felt like without magic.

He lifted his hand, summoning a chill into his fingertips. He could manage it. It was still possible. Yet he could feel the presence of the barrier now. He could feel it ripple as he reached through to the power stored beyond it. He let out a slow breath, lifting himself to his feet. His body ached from the strain and he steadied himself against the wall, his orb tucked under his arm.

The Veil was born.

His work was done.


	20. Epilogue

He was worn. Weary. Never before had he carried a staff and yet it was a necessity now as he steadied himself against it. The orb thrummed with power. He could feel it against his palm – so much of himself poured into that singular moment, focused and channeled and now held within its casing. He cradled it to his side protectively.

His people celebrated their triumph. Tarasyl’an Te’las was filled with the sound of feasting and merriment. They were safe. They were free. This was only the beginning. The nobles would resist the sudden change to their way of life, but now they didn’t have the gods to back up their claim to dominance. His people would continue to fight to keep Elvhenan free from slavery. There would be conflict. It was inevitable. But they could defend themselves here, tucked away in the mountains, surrounded by the magic that would shield them.

Fen’Harel did not join them in their celebrations. He quietly slipped away, unnoticed and unseen. It was the way it had to be. Their lives were their own now. Free to make their own choices. Free to run their lives as they saw fit. This was the last gift he could give to them. A world without gods had no place for him in it.

When he was a younger man, he never would have thought that there would come a time when he looked forward to uthenera. The concept of aimlessly wandering the Fade, separated from all of the pleasures and indulgences of the physical plane was something that held no interest for him. But as he let himself sink deeper, he could feel nothing but relief. He was tired. It was time to rest. Time to let go. As he descended, he could no longer feel the weight of the orb clutched between his hands. The sensation of cool stone against his back dissipated. He was drifting, untethered, disconnected and for a moment he felt nothing. There was no strain. No fear. No remorse or regret. As the Fade took shape around him, his thoughts wandered to the world that may await him, ages from now when he eventually awoke. He was not so optimistic or naïve as to believe that it would be some idyllic paradise. The gods themselves had been fallible. He had no expectations for the elves being any different. But in that moment he truly believed that the People would find a way for themselves. They would find their own path. The world he would see when he awoke would prove to him that all of his sacrifices were worth it.

That was the only hope he could cling to now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap. Thank you so much for reading and I hoped you enjoyed my little diversion to keep myself occupied until DA’s canon gives us some proper content for Elvhenan and its gods.


End file.
